


Just to See You Smile Again

by amadwinter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Awesome Peggy Carter, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Captain America: The First Avenger, Former Winter Soldier!Bucky, Gallows Humor, Howling Commandos bonding, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Russian Bucky Barnes, Time travel makes everything complicated, World War II, modern!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amadwinter/pseuds/amadwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky came back from Afghanistan with PTSD and a metal arm. After years of therapy, he's finally regaining a sense of self and identity that was lost when he became a POW.</p><p>Then aliens descend upon Manhattan and Bucky is thrown back to Europe during World War II. Because why have one reality-shattering event when you can have two? But the 1940s weren't meant to handle Bucky Barnes, and beyond the cardinal rule of time travel (you can't go back in time and kill Hitler), there's a few things he's having trouble not messing up. Like Captain America's epic romance with Peggy Carter or the whole damn timeline.</p><p>The last thing he needs is to fall in love with Steve Rogers (although Howard Stark gaining proprietary rights to the iPhone around the same time he helped split the atom was a very close second).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this'll be fun. I'm trying out 1.5k/chapter as opposed to 5k/chapter to see how that works.
> 
> The Russian language in this fic will not be of import, but translations are at the bottom anyway.

When the sky opened up above the streets of Manhattan, reality seemed not to shatter but to simply halt. The events that followed could have been a dream for all that Bucky was aware. Surely, aliens pouring out of a hole in the sky and actual superheroes jumping from skyscrapers _had_ to be a product of his fucked up mind.

Right?

Ever since Iron Man showed up some four years before, the world had gotten a lot stranger. Now, he wasn’t going to resent his employer just because the guy had powerful enemies. Tony Stark was, for the most part, a good man, and saved a lot of lives over the years

But while he expected some weird shit to happen when he accepted a security job at Stark Tower, Bucky was told that it would be more along the lines of protestors or reporters that he dealt with. At least the aliens were thoughtful enough to wait until _after_ he clocked out to commence the invasion plans.

Unfortunately, he was walking along Park Avenue in the tower’s shadow at the moment everyone’s eyes turned to the sky. Not just tourists, either. Of course something big was going down if it got the attention of New Yorkers.

Normally, he’d just ignore it. Bucky figured that since he had to cross the street anyway, might as well try to get a good look at what was going on.

Oh, look. Iron Man.

How was that new?

Mr. Stark fired at something that Bucky couldn’t see from his angle, only to have his shot returned. There were a few gasps from the patrons of _Pershing Square Café_ who chose to sit outside, but once Mr. Stark had righted himself, there were no subsequent explosions.

It still didn’t feel right, though. Probably better to get on the subway and out of Manhattan just to be safe.

As he walked into the restaurant, Bucky nodded to the host. He’d been seen often enough that the staff knew who he was, even if he never spoke to them. Everyone seemed to have been unperturbed by what happened outside, but that didn’t slow Bucky down at all. He could see his target standing near the bar, engaged in conversation with the bartender. She leaned in close, probably with romantic intent, and it would be all too easy to—

“Becca,” he called out.

_Not a target, just your sister._

He was still quick to fall into that state of mind whenever he became nervous. Probably something he should have worked out with his therapist by now, but at least he wasn’t attacking people anymore.

The woman turned to look at him, recognition spreading in an ugly manner across her face. “Bucky,” she said, and that was definitely agitation in her voice.

“Time to go.” Bucky stood just out of reach from her, his body tense and his weight almost entirely on his left foot. He wiped his hands on his jeans and tried to keep looking her in the eye.

But Rebecca appeared to be in no hurry to leave. She turned back to the bartender with a saccharine smile. This time, he could hear what she was saying, and his assumptions were correct.

“Anyway, like I said, David. I’d love to go for a ride on your bike sometime. Maybe we could catch dinner sometime, yeah?”

Bucky scowled. “Becca,” he repeated more firmly, shifting to his other foot. He liked to think that he was expressing annoyance rather than anxiety, and based on the way that she casually ignored him, he was right.

Rebecca twisted her head back slowly. She gave him a long look that one could mistake for a glare and folded her arms together in defiance. “Cool your jets, Buck. I’ve still got five minutes until my shift is over.”

“So flirting is in your job description, now?”

Her cheeks flushed pink with something other than makeup. Rebecca quickly pulled a pen from her pocket and scrawled a string of numbers on a spare napkin. She handed it to the bartender, their hands brushing in the exchange.

“Call me,” Rebecca said, leaning in close. Bucky could still hear her, and knowing his sister, she definitely knew that, too. Oh, how she loved to piss him off constantly.

“ _Не_ _хачу_ _это_ ,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head in frustration.

Finally, _finally_ , they were ready to leave. Bucky shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket to keep from clenching them and stepped back to give Rebecca room to move. She noticed and raised a neatly groomed eyebrow at him.

“I don’t know what you’re getting excited about. I still have to work.”

Bucky frowned and his heart began to beat just a little bit faster. For now, he could ignore it, though, and as Rebecca started to walk out the side door to the patio, Bucky followed her.

They both stopped suddenly, but he had kept enough distance from her to not run into her back.

“No, stop it. You’re not following me around. You’ll freak out the customers.”

He wasn’t what was going to disturb them, but Bucky wasn’t about to point that out. Rebecca would just say it was his paranoia acting up again. And, yeah, maybe there was a grain of truth to that, but a little bit of paranoia was good for the soul.

Or some other excuse that sounded better outside of his head.

Preferably one that wouldn’t have Rebecca calling up their mother.

“Hey, what was that thing you said yesterday?”

Now his mouth was running. Great. Just what he needed.

“What thing, Bucky?” Rebecca said over her shoulder, putting her hands on her hips in exasperation.

“That thing that happened in Germany. With Iron Man.”

“Oh, you mean your boss?”

His lips twitched, and it wasn’t in threat of a smile. “No, I’m talking about the Iron Man from an alternate dimension. Seriously, Becks. You said something happened yesterday. What was it?”

Rebecca turned around and took a step closer to really look at him. Sympathy began to spread in her eyes, and fuck, this was not where he wanted this conversation to go. “Bucky,” she said softly. She reached out like she was going to touch his shoulder before she remembered herself and quickly withdrew her hand. It was times like this he wished he could indulge in such trivial things as physical affection.

“Listen to me, Bucky: what happened in Germany isn’t important. Got it? I can see that you’re getting yourself all worked up now, so why don’t you go sit down while I finished up, okay?”

He nodded absently, but the worry in his gut didn’t dissipate. Still, he appreciated her attempts to comfort him, as unsuccessful as they were.

There was a small table for two off to the side that hadn’t been cleared yet. Bucky stepped forward cautiously before just sitting down. He kept his gaze focused on the floor, watching as several pairs of shoes passed him by. He tried to think of the shoes and not the swirling thoughts in his mind. Soon, the restaurant’s cacophony faded, and all he could hear was his own breathing.

As he began to calm down, Bucky began to look over his thoughts with a small amount of amusement and embarrassment. He got so worked up over the smallest things, sometimes. And, yeah, superheroes superhero-ing wasn’t a small thing, but it wasn’t his place to get so worried about irrelevant world events.

That was the reason he wasn’t allowed to watch CNN anymore, after all. A week on the couch, dazed as the newscasters droned on, was too much for his family to handle, much less Bucky himself.

A small smile spread on his face. And at least now he had something to talk to his therapist about that didn’t involve attempting to remember the past eight years of his life.

Someone started screaming outside. Not an unusual occurrence for New York, but this one sent chills down Bucky’s spine. He knew that Rebecca was going to get on his case for it later, but he stood up and walked out the door to take a look.

He was just in time to see Tony Stark almost hit the pavement. His eyes shot up to the sky, and everyone on the streets watched as a beam of blue light shot from the top of Stark Tower into the sky. The light appeared to sear a hole in the very fabric of reality, and through that window, Bucky gazed in wonder at an unfamiliar set of stars.

For one beautiful moment, he saw the heavens themselves.

And then something came through. From the ground, he couldn’t see what it was, but it was followed by a few more somethings. They fell fast, faster than Bucky would have thought. By the time he realized they weren’t falling, they were _flying_ , the objects had come close enough that he could identify what they were.

“Holy shit.” Bucky looked to his side and saw that he was standing next to Rebecca. She was staring up at the sky as well, so Bucky knew that he did not have to add hallucinations to his list of issues.

Those were fucking aliens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Не хачу это_ \- [I] do not want


	2. Chapter 2

Aliens were descending upon New York City (because where else would they choose to invade?), and it appeared that the world was woefully unprepared.

Bucky grabbed his sister and pulled her back into the restaurant, only looking around for a moment. Everyone had cleared the streets in a matter of moments, with a few people still making their way inside for safety. Police sirens were ringing out from all around, but Bucky had no idea what the police could do when they were up against aliens.

Shit. Aliens. Really.

That was probably something he’d never get over.

At some point, he realized that he was holding Rebecca up against his side. This was the most physical contact he’d had with anyone in years outside sex, and for once it wasn’t bothering him. In fact, after he noticed, he pulled her closer, trying to shield her eyes from the horrors.

Funny how it took a disaster for him to start acting like a big brother again.

From above the restaurant, the sound of heavy gunfire penetrated the otherwise silent room. It wasn’t at all like the technology Bucky had glimpsed the aliens using. No, this sounded like military-grade weaponry, and he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Thank God,” whispered a woman standing next to them. “We’re saved.”

Rebecca lifted her head from his shoulder and gave Bucky a weak smile. He made a mental note to remind her that he had wanted to leave earlier, but it was a very bitter satisfaction considering the circumstances.

A loud crash shook the entire building, wiping the smile from Rebecca’s face. Some people screamed, but everything remained intact. That sound, though. It was a far cry from crashing cars, and was more reminiscent of a large aerial vehicle hitting concrete.

Like the Middle East all over again. Only this time, the enemy had bigger guns.

The woman next to them was also the first to spot something else coming from the hole in the sky. The window panes were crowded as people tried to catch a glimpse of whatever it was.

 _Curiosity will be the death of us_ , Bucky thought as he, too, took a quick look outside.

A creature that looked far too large to fit sailed down from the rip in the sky.

Fuck.

Yeah, that was frightening, even with only a short glance.

The situation was bad. Really, truly bad. Military intervention or not, things weren’t getting any better. There was no telling how long it would take for the aliens to be defeated. He wasn’t even going to let himself think about if they _weren’t_.

And that’s when he knew.

Bucky needed to help.

As an able-bodied person (never mind the metal arm), he couldn’t just sit around watching and waiting as the world burned all around him. Hell, he even had some experience with unimaginable horrors. Aliens weren’t something he was ever trained for, but then again, he hadn’t been trained for civilian life, either.

If he was going to die, he thought he should at least try to live a little.

With shaky resolve, Bucky pressed a kiss to Rebecca’s forehead and held her close for just another moment longer. He closed his eyes and prayed to a God that he never thought he believed in that she would make it out okay.

Then he let go and made for the door. He didn’t make it three steps before Rebecca grabbed his arm to stop him. She gave him a pleading look, her eyes filled with an all-too familiar fear. “You can’t go out there,” she whispered as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Bucky tried to shake his arm free, but she wasn’t letting go. “There are still people out there that need help.”

“You’re just going to get yourself killed.”

Bucky shrugged, giving her a small but sincere smile. “I took on the Taliban and survived. I’d like to see these bastards try to put me down. It might be fun.” He wiped away her tears with the pads of his thumbs, his own eyes a little misty.

Clearly, she thought otherwise, but Rebecca still let go. She rubbed her eyes, and Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was smearing her eyeliner. “You stupid asshole. You’d better come back for me.”

“Of course I will, Becks.” He paused, then pressed another kiss to her forehead. All this touching had never really been his thing, but just like when he first shipped out, things were very different. “But you gotta promise me something.”

“Hm?”

“Promise me that you’ll stay here, Becca. Promise me that you won’t do something stupid. Don’t go out those doors, don’t come after me. Not until it’s all over.”

Rebecca smiled up at him. “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” She stepped closer and gave him a brief hug. Bucky held back a flinch, not wanting to feel so broken now when he needed to be strong. She stepped back and stood up tall, looking him right in the eye. “I promise I’ll stay safe. Not gonna run away and join the circus or nothin’.”

Another Bucky would have laughed at that, but the only laughs he had these days were too maniacal for the situation.

So he walked out the door, not once looking back. He found it was easier to get things done when he didn’t dwell on the anxiety.

Bucky could tell that things had already gone to hell from the moment he stepped out of the restaurant. There were aliens flying all around, and people running for their lives. Thousands of screams filled the air, and through the battered wrecks of cars, Bucky could see that some of the aliens were climbing up the buildings.

Police vehicles were lined up and down Park. Just ahead, they were trying to control the chaos. Bucky could distantly hear them directing people away from the streets, like they didn’t know the buildings weren’t safe, either.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. His legs wouldn’t move, and he began to wonder if maybe he should have stayed inside after all. He was just going to get himself killed, like Rebecca said.

The smell of burning flesh had brought him back to a place he’d rather stay away from. The carnage of war seemed foreign in Manhattan. But Afghanistan? That was familiar enough in a horrifying manner.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky spotted something flying at him. It was only his good reflexes that saved him. When he jumped back, Bucky caught the eye of the alien, but it didn’t turn around again.

Only a few moments passed before it was shot with an arrow. Bucky wondered who the hell could have thought that would be effective. Then the arrow exploded, and yeah, okay, that was pretty damn effective after all. He caught a quick glimpse of a man with a bow on top of the viaduct, but he didn’t stop to stare.

Further down the street, he could see a handful of police attempting to fend off a group of aliens. They weren’t doing all that great, and those things kept coming. He could feel in his gut the need to help them, even though he wasn’t sure he’d be much help at all.

Bucky took a deep breath to steady himself, then set out running. Normally, it would have taken him less than three minutes to get there. However, nothing about that day was normal, and Bucky got only a slight warning before someone jumped from the viaduct with explosions following behind him.

Wait.

Why was he dressed like Captain America?

There was little time to process how one of the costumed entertainers had gotten there from Times Square so quickly. The man took off in a run toward where the cops were, and though he was fast, Bucky thought he might be faster.

Bucky broke into a run, dodging debris like it was second nature. He used his left hand to help him slide over the hood of a parked car, glancing inside for just a moment. Satisfied that there was no one in that car, or any other nearby for that matter, he continued on.

Instincts that he had buried came back to him now. With just a turn of his head, Bucky could identify any signs of life and detect all possible threats. Of the latter, there were many, but he was only seeing remnants of human beings. Hopefully, most everyone had fled to a more defensible location.

Nowhere seemed safe. Aliens flew about, and shots were fired. He had to get down to the police and help with evacuations, because he couldn’t very well fight these things without a weapon.

He was almost to the location where the officers were stationed before he was halted once more.

This time, Bucky was hit with a green flash of light, and all he could feel was a great amount of pain. For a moment, he thought he was back in the chair; but that was impossible. He hadn’t been reprogrammed in years.

His eyes rolled back into his head, his ears filled with white noise, and the chaos faded away, replaced by the sweet bliss of nothingness that Bucky thought he’d long forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

It was cold. And wet. Probably dark, too, but he’d have to open his eyes to determine that. At the moment, the thought of doing so made his head spin. 

Actually, this felt more like vertigo; especially with the rapid beat of his heart and the stiffness of his joints. Adrenaline was surging through his veins, but he couldn’t remember why.

Was he on a mission?

No. The Soldier went on missions. He was _Bucky_ , and the only missions that Bucky went on involved going about his life without having a panic attack.

Was that it, then? A panic attack?

Entirely plausible. He couldn’t remember the last one he’d had, so it had likely been more than a couple weeks. He was overdue, then. But his breath was evening out now. So not a panic attack.

It appeared that he was going to have to open his eyes to figure out what was going on, because his most recent memories weren’t clear enough for him to rely on. He was in Manhattan. He was working. Then, nothing. And while he always relished a quiet moment without the city scenery, it was far too serene where he was for him to be comfortable.

Bucky grit his teeth and open his eyes wide. It might have been better to do it slowly, but he was an all-or-nothing kind of guy.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. It wasn’t surprising… except that it was.

When did the sun set? He tried to recall, but couldn’t. There were far too many questions already, and he wondered how elusive the answers were going to be. This was certainly troubling. He’d have to rethink Rebecca’s advice about getting a service dog if he was starting to have blackouts again.

His flesh hand curled, and Bucky was happy to note that at the very least, his limbs were responsive. The downside was that he appeared to be lying on a thick bed of grass. Why the fuck was he passed out in a park? He may not have been able to remember what happened, but Bucky hoped that he’d have enough common sense not to go wandering through a park at night.

There were trees, too, so he was pretty deep into whatever park he was in. He hoped that he wasn’t in one of the seedier parts of the city, because while he’d always been a straight kid, everyone knew the kind of shit that went down after dark.

His favourite hoodie now had a copious amount of mud all over, but even worse was the feeling of it on the back of his neck. Great. His white button-down was ruined, too. It was a good thing he hadn’t worn his good shoes; he’d never hear the end of it from his Ma if he’d fucked those up.

Bucky sat up and resisted the urge to hide his face in his hands. He really didn’t need any more mud on him, after all. He looked at his left arm and, yeah, that was filthy, too.

Could he get that out of the joints, or would he have to get that fixed?

More importantly, where he go to have a metal arm worked on? And he didn’t even want to think of how ridiculous the cost was going to be, since it wasn’t likely that his insurance covered “advanced Russian prosthetic weapon repair”.

He should have just asked if they could take it off when they triaged him, because he’d never thought things through for the long-term.

Ladies and gentlemen: Bucky Barnes, walking disaster.

A gunshot rang out, followed by four more. The sounds echoed out through the clearing with alarming proximity, and Bucky leapt to his feet without pause. That effectively cut short his internal soliloquy.

He crouched down low and tried to pinpoint the origin of the noise. Years without hearing a single shot fired, and his body still knew exactly how to react to danger like that.

It was at that point he had two options: investigate, or walk away. He would have been wise to avoid a confrontation with someone who still likely had at least one bullet left. But Bucky had never really been known for making the wisest decision, and he wasn’t about to start now.

By then, his head had cleared. No memories yet, but he didn’t feel like he was going to topple over. Bucky still kept low to the ground as he prowled through the muddy copse, preferring precision over speed. The darkness would help give him cover if the area was unsecure. There wasn’t going to be anyone, though; had someone been within fifteen metres, he would have known.

With the trees overhead, he couldn’t count on the stars to guide him, and since he didn’t even know where he was, Bucky was running around blind. At any moment, he could have walked straight into something that he wanted no part of.

Because it was pure dumb luck that had him finding what looked to be a main dirt road, Bucky didn’t feel much satisfaction until he could see a faint lights in the distance.

There were people traipsing down the path up ahead, but it was too dim to make out any details. Bucky cursed the lack of path lights. It was a wonder how the city got away with it, seeing as how people loved to complain loudly about _everything_.

If the people up ahead possessed the guns he just heard, it wouldn’t be a good idea to just go up to them and _ask_. They might start shooting, and he didn’t want to wind up with a few bodies on his hand with just the excuse of curiosity. Someone might start asking questions, and he wasn’t entirely sure if the military would bail him out or not.

Bucky knew that he should probably just alert the police and get out of dodge. Wherever it was that he had woken up, there was bound to be a cop or two around.

So why was he running back into the trees to follow the group up ahead?

Oh, yeah. He was certifiable.

Right.

This time around, Bucky moved more quickly. Lurking was easier when there was a visual target and his biggest priority was staying out of the sightline. Skirting around a handful of trees and jumping over a bush or two to keep abreast with the party was almost child’s play for him.

It helped that the guys appeared to be continuing forward in a sluggish march as opposed to jogging or something else that a large group of people would normally do in the park.

It was like they were purposefully dragging it out.

Now why would that be?

Someone fell to their knees a few paces ahead, and the whole procession came to a halt. Bucky sat back on the balls of his feet and was eager to watch. It was an opportune moment for him to take in some of the finer details, but that didn’t help much.

If anything, a closer look only confused him even more. The people, all men, appeared to be wearing at least 3 different types of military uniforms, and not the one’s Bucky was used to. Some were torn and bloodied, while others seemed almost pristinely kept. It was a strange contrast that didn’t make sense until he saw the guns.

Or rather, the lack thereof, because not everyone was armed.

The men without guns looked like hell. Most were injured in some way, but they were all weary and like they were about to drop soon. Though there were a lot of differences in the minutia, the situation was all too familiar.

These men had recently seen battle, and the losers had been taken captive.

Bucky remembered how it felt to be captured by the enemy. There wasn’t much else he remembered about his time as a POW, but he certainly could recall the taste of bile on his tongue and the way that his gut churned when he’d realized that he wasn’t going to make it back to base.

One of the captives tried to help his comrade stand back up, but every time, he just slunk back down. An armed man approached them, his face gaunt in the torchlight he held. Words were exchanged, but Bucky was too far away to hear. He didn’t even know if they were speaking in English.

Then the talking stopped, and Bucky held his breath. He knew what was going to happen before the trigger was pulled, but that didn’t make watching it any easier.

The healthy man was pulled back on his feet, and the marching started once more, as if someone hadn’t just been mercilessly executed in front of them. None of them looked unfazed, but neither did anyone stop for even a moment.

War was gruesome and ruthless, certainly, but what had just happened was more the Soldier’s territory, not Bucky’s.

The smell of gunpowder drifted over to where he was hidden, and he knew that he was too close. These men, whoever they were, would notice him sooner or later as they trampled by in the darkness. Even if Bucky had been at his best, which he certainly _wasn’t_ , it was too risky to be within the range of a pistol from a group of unknown combatants.

Slowly, he backed away from the path, hoping that the noise the soldiers were making would cover any unfortunate twigs snapping. He really didn’t want to be a part of that cliché.

So of course he fell prey to a completely different cliché.

Bucky’s heel landed on what was probably a rock, and before he could correct himself, his ankle twisted. A man of his size usually didn’t fall silently. He was in the woods, and there were people around to hear, and he wasn’t a fucking tree.

Luckily, though, it appeared that no one had heard him. There were no men in uniform coming to investigate strange noises coming from the bushes, and so he counted his luck and stood up for a hasty retreat.

Which is exactly when two guys who had stopped to take a piss looked his way and saw him

Because fuck his life.


	4. Chapter 4

They were shouting now, and it took two ticks for Bucky to realize it was _German_ they were speaking. He knew German, not as well as some other languages, but their voices were too harsh for him to make out anything coherent. And, you know, the guns they were pointing at him made for a pretty good distraction, even if it wasn’t caused by fear.

Bucky took a long breath and tried to think of something he could say to diffuse the situation. Words weren’t really his best skill set, but he could charm his way into robbing a bank if he wanted to. Besides, talking down two fidgety Germans with K98s was nothing compared to getting the Bratva to smuggle a body out of Kiev Although, they had been surprisingly more receptive after they’d tried and failed to kill him. Twice.

All he had to do was make a joke and get the hell out of dodge before they changed their minds about shooting him. Easy.

“ _Еб_ _твою_ _мать."_

Well then. That made things _worse_.

Usually, he could control his word vomit better than that. But saying the wrong thing _in the wrong language_? Achievement unlocked; that was a brand new level of fail for him. At least they weren’t likely to understand him.

The men began to wave their rifles around, still shouting in incomprehensible German. It sort of sounded like they were telling him to surrender his weapons, but that was ridiculous. How the fuck did they expect him to be packing heat in tight-ass skinny jeans? Hell, he couldn’t even slip a phone into the pretty nonexistent pockets, which is the whole reason he carried a backpack around.

His backpack that he suddenly realized was very much not on his back. Of all the reactions he could have had, the only worry he felt about that was for his missing journal. Perspective was a lost cause for people like him.

What else was he supposed to do? Bucky reluctantly put his arms above his head and allowed one of the men to pat him down. It wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined it’d be (and with the TSA being a thing, he’d definitely thought of this happening), and so long as they didn’t shoot at him, he wouldn’t pull any stunts. Yet. He could keep resistance as a good back-up plan.

The process was quick, as he didn’t carry weapons on him anymore. Having his psychiatrist kindly threaten to commit him was enough of a warning for him to remain unarmed during non-work hours. No guns, no knives, not even a pen to defend himself with. When they were satisfied that he wasn’t hiding anything, the men ushered him toward the rest of the group.

And just like that, the procession moved onward as if nothing had even happened. As if some unarmed stranger hadn’t been pulled from the thickets and thrust into what Bucky was sure was supposed to be a line. He was easily able to slip in unnoticed by anyone but the guys with the guns. At this point, it was dark enough that it wasn’t easy to discern that his clothes weren’t military issue, so he could forgive them for not noticing that he was a civilian.

Because that’s what he was supposed to be now.

A civilian.

He was probably more lethal with just his bare hands than these punks were with their antiquated guns, but that didn’t mean jack shit these days. Bucky had to contend with _laws_ now and _decency_. If it were just his own morality, that’d be a whole different battle. But the days of him being the Soldier were long gone, and so were those of him being _a_ soldier. It wasn’t his place to engage the enemy, even though he knew he could take them all and make it out alive.

That meant the best he could do was watch and stay vigilant, unfortunately. Wait around for a good chance to escape. But all bets were off if things got worse. Because fuck morality; Bucky wasn’t going to let himself die just yet. Not after everything he’d been through.

He wasn’t sure if it would have to come to trading blows, though, because he was trying really hard not to analyze the situation too much. He’d already worked out that he was in a pack of POWs, and that his captors gave off a Nazi-esque vibe. Somewhere in between the down-hearted trod of boots and the eerie stillness of the night, Bucky must have come to the conclusion that he wasn’t in New York anymore, but it was more of a buildup of little things, not a singular moment of truth. They were too far removed from _anything_ , and even the air tasted a little less city-like.

Gaps in his memory were hardly a new thing, and Bucky knew the drill when it came to piecing through the events that led up to a black out. It was a stupid mistake to assume things without enough information, but dammit, he’d been watching too much TV with Rebecca lately, and his flesh hand was jittery with anticipation.

If the small screen had taught him anything, it was that the kind of tension he could feel thickening around him was the sort that led to someone doing something really stupid. As Bucky carefully lifted his hand to brush the hair from his face, who it was going to be. Any sudden movements were bound to be cause for alarm, and he didn’t want a trigger-happy goon to think he was making a run for it. He wasn’t delusional enough to think he’d get very far if he just took off into the night, and he didn’t think anyone else was either. He wasn’t going to be like Lokir of Rorikstead and get shot in the back.

Not that he was in the mood to go running. Bucky’s arches throbbed, and his skin chaffed where the mud was now dry. The entirety of his body ached in a way that suggested both inactivity and exhaustion. The fog was heavy, and on a moonless night, the visibility was so poor he could hardly see three metres out. His breath left his lungs with a sting, and not only were his cheeks cold, but they were wet.

It was kind of miserable, and not at all good get-away weather. Still, he did have to admit that it was a slight improvement from marching for hours under the baking sun and having to get sand out of his everywhere at the end of the day. Even if he was tripping over his own feet very so often, and sometimes someone else’s feet.

He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt so utterly _human_. Weak and weary, but very much alive. It was a very strange juxtaposition, but not entirely out of place at the moment.

In spite of the obvious physical and emotional pain they all felt, Bucky couldn’t escape the thought that the men he was walking with were just waiting for an excuse to lash at their captors. They stood very little chance of winning if they tried to put up fight, yet their desperation was almost palpable.

Their moxie was definitely something to be admired. These soldiers were defeated, yes, but they remained unbroken.

How long was that going to last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation(s):  
>  _Еб твою мать_ \- ... (let's just say that it's not something one would say in polite company)
> 
> So since this chapter is a bit short, I'm going to try to get the next one up before my usual posting date. Which, if you haven't already noticed, is Sundays and Thursdays.
> 
> I admit to feeling a little Schadenfreude when writing this fic. Oops.


	5. Chapter 5

The sky was pink when they finally found some evidence of civilization. The narrow path they were taking converged upon a well-travelled but still dirt road, and they were forced to stop as three large trucks drove by. Of all the things Bucky had expected to be waiting for them at the end of that road, a massive militaristic complex crawling with German Stormtroopers was not one of them.

He didn’t have time to stop and stare before they were led through the gates under intense surveillance. The men standing guard were heavily armed, with slightly bulky black body armor covering them head to toe. Not one of them looked to be the run of the mill militiamen Bucky had expected, though some of them carried the same clunky weapons as the guys who had captured him. As bad as he knew his own situation to be, he didn’t need to know the background story to know that something well and truly fucked up was going on.

So much for not jumping to conclusions. At least the fog had lifted, allowing him to better assess the layout of the area. There was a fleeting thought that he’d cleared this map before, but it passed. If you’ve seen one military complex hidden away in the woods, then you’ve seen them all (even if quite a few had been from video games).

The trucks that had passed them were backed into loading docks by now, but they weren’t the only vehicles in the clearing. There were even a few tanks off in the distance. Where the hell were they that could have not just one but a handful of tanks simply lying around? Too temperate for the jungle, too green for the desert, too warm for the taigas; nothing was adding up.

They weaved between the long lines of uber tanks and cargo trucks, only Bucky seeming to care where his feet fell. Dirt and grass with no sign of pavement, which was cause for concern at what looked to be a factory. From the smoke stacks on the highest building, he could tell they were making something here, though, and the security would be shit for a prison.

Patrols roamed in the darkness, their paths preceded by searchlights in the early hour. They didn’t appear to be well armed, and he swore that he could have seen a few of them without even the pristine tan uniforms. The gates and the men manning them were well enough to fend off a surprise attack from the outside. It appeared that they were woefully unprepared for an attack coming from the _inside_ , despite the prisoners they had just brought back.

Around the corner, the gate had disappeared from his sight, as had most of the compound’s activity. Bucky cursed as he smelled the foul odor of the latrines. It was somehow worse than the streets of New York, which was saying a lot. A man who had been leading their procession said they would be given five minutes to relieve themselves. Only some took the chance to do so; others had soiled themselves on the long march over, which Bucky knew to be a miserable, but often necessary option.

Five minutes passed, and not a moment later, the same man ordered them into a line and back around the building. They were made to stand in terrible facsimile of formation, the sun thankfully too low to blind them. Then the man began to pace in front of them, looking each of them over carefully.

“State your name, rank, and race,” he said as he finished his pacing, then began with the person on the far left. Bucky couldn’t see them, and their words were muffled under the lively din, but whatever was said was transcribed into a book by a tall man standing off to the side. After being reintegrated into society, Bucky thought that the whole pen and paper thing was too troublesome, but not everyone was of a similar mind.

When the man came around to look him straight in the face, Bucky was ready. He had “Sergeant James Barnes of the 1st US Rangers” ready to say at a moment’s notice, a reflex honed back at boot camp, but something must have been locked lose in his head.

“What is your name,” the man asked with a strong German accent.

Instead of the proper response, Bucky answered, “ _зимний солдат_ ,” a designation that still felt foreign on his tongue.

The man frowned from under the brim of his hat, his glare not half as menacing as he likely intended. Without turning to look, the man beckoned the grunt holding the ledger to stand behind him. “ _Auf Russisch_ ,” he said sharply.

The grunt nodded, walking over and sizing Bucky up with a quick look. “ _Как вас зoвут_?”

Bucky blinked. He hadn’t expected them to have a man fluent in Russian on their staff, but even in another language, the question failed to spur the expected response. “ _Меня зовут зимний солдат_.” Quite obviously, the answer puzzled even the Russian-speaker, and Bucky mostly had anticipated that. Now, he was just fucking with him because, quite frankly, he _could_.

“ _Имя? Фамилия_?”

“ _зимний солдат.”_ Neither worked as a first or last name, but it was what had been written on the Red Room files. It was all he was willing to give.

Right on cue, the grunt looked to his superior like he wanted help, but even Bucky knew that there wasn’t going to be any. The man coughed, then asked tentatively, “ _Еврей_?”

Oh hell no. Bucky was so not going to play pin the tail on the Jew for a very Nazi-like group of people. He rolled his eyes and wondered if they really thought he was going to answer them. “ _Я Американец_ ,” he growled through his teeth.

That definitely shocked the guy. “You are American?” Unlike the other one, this man only had a slight accent, but it wasn’t German. Hungarian, perhaps, but it was hard to tell with polyglots. Although he had wanted to give a smartass remark, Bucky decided to at last give his name and rank, if only to make the commander move on from him. Both of them were looking a little testy, and he didn’t want to press his luck further at this juncture.

The Hungarian nodded and scribbled down what he had written, as well as a few bits of unknown code that Bucky couldn’t decipher upside down. Then he floated back to his previous position a good two metres behind the German while the man resumed his questioning with the man on Bucky’s right.

With nothing left to anchor him, Bucky drifted. He wasn’t really paying attention to what was happening, only absently noting the rapidly progressing hustle of the men at work. When he felt the sun on the back of his neck, he wanted nothing more than to lounge around like a cat, his aches presenting more of a mental strain than anything.

A clap sounded, and roll call was over. Without another word, they were led to a door, and into a side building. They first passed by some shady machinery that looked like something out of a steampunk fantasy, then made their way through a few long halls that made Bucky want to scream at the monotony. Oh, sure, he was memorizing the layout, but the architect could have at least tried to make it all more interesting, if only to challenge him a bit.

They reached their final destination at last: a dark, wet room lined with cages. Actually, Bucky supposed that they were probably cells, seeing as how there were men stuffed into some of them. They were all weak and weary, and none were dressed in the now-familiar pristine blacks that littered the rest of the compound.

A huge part of him was relieved that he hadn’t been hallucinating before, because now was a shitty time for a psychological breakdown. It was hard enough keeping calm under this kind of pressure—

With the shock of a lightning bolt, he suddenly grasped at the memories that had been just out of reach and oh fuck aliens. Manhattan. Iron Man. A guy dressed as Captain America. Becca's scared face. A flash of green light.

And now he was here. Wherever _here_ was.

There was no way to tell just how much time had passed between getting hit with the green light and waking up on the forest floor. Bucky's memory had been pretty consistent for a good year and a half streak, so it wasn't inconceivable that no time at all had passed. Because really, if he accepted the existence of _superheroes_ and _aliens_ , then teleportation wasn't completely outside the realm of possibilities.

Was he even still on Earth? Fuck, now that would be wild. But no, of course he was. They didn't have Germans in space.

So lost in his head, it took Bucky a moment to realize that a tall blond man at the head of the room had called their attention. The Hungarian, actually. It took even longer for him to realize, hey, that’s English, and oh, he should probably pay attention. It would also probably be a good idea to ask someone to check for a concussion when he got the chance, because he was staring dumbfounded at the guy’s face for far too long before the weight of his words finally caught up.

“… belong to Hydra. You will work on what we say to work on, and there will be no complaints. Resistance of any kind will be met with force if you are lucky. And for the unlucky, you may be subjected to some highly unpleasant tests, for which the survival rate is not in your favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
>  _зимний солдат_ \- The Winter Soldier  
>  _Auf Russisch_ \- in Russian  
>  _Как вас зoвут?_ \- what is your name?  
>  _Меня зовут зимний солдат_ \- my name is the Winter Soldier  
>  _Имя? Фамилия?_ \- First name? Last name?  
>  _Еврей?_ \- Jew?  
>  _Я Американец_ \- I am American
> 
> Sooo updating early didn't happen. I'm actually late this time around, so no more promises, k guys. Sorry about that. And sorry about the excessive Russian, and I guess the German? And yes, I know the Stormtroopers were in World War I, not World War II. Artistic liberties, yadda yadda.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hydra_. Was he serious? Bucky remembered sleeping through lessons about Hydra in high school, along with the Waffen-SS and a lot of other Nazi-related topics. He remembered the anti-Semitic jokes whispered by his classmates who thought he couldn’t hear. Really, it was all too much.

Bucky laughed.

Which, fuck, probably not the best timing there. But he didn’t care because the whole situation was just too funny.

So, a Jew walks into a group of armed neo-Nazis… How had his life become the setup of a bad joke?

He could feel everyone looking at him. It was honestly amazing that he’d been able to hold himself together this long. But did it always have to be fucking Nazis? Bucky was sure that he’d cried a great deal the last time he had been captured, but he sure as hell didn’t laugh. Then again, these guys likely had nothing on the sick bastards of the Red Room.

The towhead walked up to him with an ugly sneer. In his mind, Bucky decided to call him “Laszlo”, because “the Hungarian” was too impersonal for his tastes, and it was the first Hungarian name that he could think up on the spot. Maybe he’d finally broken completely, and everyone in the room would be witness to his insanity, because Bucky only laughed again, with his whole body put into it.

“ _Что_?” He looked Laszlo right in the eye and gave him a crooked grin.

The punch that followed should have been expected, and perhaps a part of him had expected it as he didn’t even blink. It wasn’t even all that solid of a hit, and the guy might have gotten a couple of fingers broken in the process, but Bucky knew his jaw was really going to smart in a few hours. To be fair, though, he really fucking deserved it, and likely much more for his insolence. He’d have been lucky if his own mother hadn’t hit him upside the head for the kind of lip he was giving.

Falling after hurt like hell and caused a giddy fluttering sensation in his stomach. Even with the breath knocked out of him, Bucky couldn’t hide his smile. He rolled onto his back and coughed out a few more laughs before Laszlo had to go and ruin it with a well-aimed kick to his gut.

“Do you think there is something amusing, Sergeant Barnes?” At the very least, he was a bitch to forget as the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes. And wouldn’t that be something to put on his headstone.

In retrospect, Bucky wished he had responded with something along the lines of: “No, sir. Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.” With any luck, the sarcasm wouldn’t have translated all that well. Even staying silent would have been a good option, and the guy probably wasn’t even expecting an answer. But no. Apparently, Bucky had a death wish, because before he’d even considered responding, he was mouthing off again.

“I was just wondering,” he said softly, trying to project a demure manner. “If I misbehave, will you send me straight to the ovens, or will I get to visit Doctor Mengele first?”

Laszlo’s lips quivered slightly before a deathly pallor took hold on him. Guess he wasn’t a big fan of Holocaust jokes. Not that many sane people were, and being Jewish himself, Bucky really shouldn’t have found them as funny as he did. But even before shit went south overseas, he’d had a sick sense of humor.

None of the other prisoners looked fazed, so there was that. If he was going to be locked up, he’d prefer it to not be with a bunch of tightasses. Who knows; it might end up making things a bit easier if they could all laugh in the face of danger.

Bucky caught Laszlo’s gaze, and his bravado suddenly faltered. Perhaps the lighting was slightly different, or maybe even a little guilt cutting through the haze in his head, but where before he’d seen a stuck-up prick who was one Swastika away from being a hotsie-totsie Nazi, there now remained rounded cheeks and eyes wide with poorly concealed fear.

_Fuck_.

This was a _kid_. Definitely younger than Rebecca, and probably only a little older than their youngest sibling. He couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17 at the most. Rogers and Hammerstein aside, if this new “Hydra” was modeling itself after the old one, then they were definitely taking the Nazi-spiel a little too far with recruiting Hitler Youth. Fascism and anti-Semitism were a strange cult to attach yourself to, but to force it on a kid?

There was a special place in hell reserved for people who brainwashed kids and turned them into child soldiers. The Soldier had personally delivered a few of them there in years past, but this was the first time that the side of him that was _all_ Bucky felt the cold rage of bloodlust.

His shoulders stiffened, and Laszlo looked over his shoulder, back at the man who appeared to be his superior officer. The boy looked ready to blow over in a strong enough breeze as orders were barked across the room. Bucky followed his gaze and noted that he recognized the speaker.

It was the man he could hardly understand, one of the two who’d first spotted him back in the woods. In the whirlwind of activity, Bucky had almost missed his jarring cadence. He was speaking again in German, of course, and yet again, Bucky could only just barely piece together the words. None of it was particularly pleasant. With the acidity of his voice, it was tempting to name this man “Adolf”, but that could make a neo-Nazi feel validated, and he couldn’t have that. Therefore, this man would be “Klaus”.

Laszlo turned back to the prisoners to relay the message, taking great liberty with paraphrasing. “You may be our enemies, but we do not wish to kill you. If you die here, it will be because of your own actions, not ours.” Comforting words coming from someone who had every reason to lie to them.

In the background, Klaus nodded, then shouted out a handful of clipped words. Laszlo and a few boys of similar age began to direct them all into their cells, but it was neither random nor inconsequential. Rather, they appeared to be taking great care with whom they placed where. Klaus was studying them from a distance, his glance jumping from the men to the name ledger in his hands and back again. There had to be some sort of strategy to it all, and even if Bucky didn’t know what that strategy was, he would certainly remember that detail.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and chewed on the implications of that for a moment. As his gaze tracked the movements of nearly everyone, he absently wiped the back of his head against his mouth and took a quick look. Sure enough, there was blood glistening on his fingers. Damn. Laszlo sure had one hell of a right hook for a kid.

A calloused hand appeared suddenly in his line of sight, distracting him from his thoughts. Bucky glanced over his shoulder, surprised that the hand had yet to touch him. One of the bruised soldiers flanked him, and after a moment of staring at the weirdest fucking facial hair, Bucky realized that he was waiting for something. More accurately, he was waiting for _Bucky_ to take his hand. Oh. Trying to help, then. That was certainly a new phenomenon.

Bucky grabbed the arm and winced as he was pulled to his feet. He took a sharp breath and closed his eyes tight as spots danced in his vision. The pain in his abdomen was brutal for a moment, but dull in the next. One of these days, he was going to have to test the limits of his accelerated healing. He opened his eyes and intended to thank the man, but his tongue didn’t want to cooperate.

It was just as well. The man pulled him closer and said, “You’d better learn to keep your goddamn mouth shut if you want to stay alive, kid.” He spoke quietly enough that that people buzzing around couldn’t tell he’d spoken at all, but Bucky heard him loud and clear. Despite wanting to reply that this wasn’t his first time being captured, Bucky only managed to nod.

With a sigh, the man let go of his arm and looked at him for another second. Then he shook his head, turning his gaze away with a sour expression. “Don’t even know if you can understand me, damn Ruski,” he muttered as he fiddled with his bowler hat. Bucky picked up what he said, but he didn’t bother to correct him. Technically, he wasn’t wrong.

The two of them were herded into a cell, along with three other men, one of whom nodded in the direction of the redhead with the bowler hat. Bucky thought that they might know each other, but he wasn’t in the mood to ask questions.

Bucky was the last one in, and he didn’t linger at the opening. Laszlo slammed the door shut and locked it twice. With all the prisoners remanded to cells, the boy and the others turned to their superior and stood at attention. They pulled their fists close to their chests, then threw them forward and what Bucky knew was certainly not the usual Nazi salute.

“Hail Hydra!”

A phrase he hadn’t heard in years. They brought back memories that were better left buried, or else shed light on the spaces where memories should have been. Terse orders given in Russian. The perfunctory check for weapons at the start of every mission. That nauseated feeling he got when they held him down so we wouldn’t thrash too violently while they reset him. A man’s heated declaration as the life left his eyes.

_Hail Hydra!_

Long ago, the Soldier had been tasked with tracking down and eradicating the last vestiges of the once-great organization. It appeared that those efforts were in vain, and the mission unsuccessful in its entirety. For once, Bucky wished that the Winter Soldier had spilled more blood, if only to make sure that whatever hell he had fallen into didn’t exist in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation(s):  
>  _Что?_ \- what?
> 
> Two chapters in as many days? Whaaat? As much as I would like to say that I'm making up for missing Sunday's post, it's actually because I'm going to be busy on Thursday and don't know if I'll be able to post then. Also, I'm impatient.


	7. Chapter 7

The echoing strike of flesh upon flesh instantly set him on edge. Bucky turned, his shoulders squared, and was met with the ridiculous scene of a brawl. In the handful of minutes that they'd been left alone, two of his cellmates had decided to beat the shit out of each other.

He bit back a groan at the sheer _stupidity_ of fighting with fellow captives. Way to make a hostile situation worse. Was tempted to say to hell with it and let them have at each other. It'd be easy to justify, but wouldn't serve to help him in the least.

“ _Боже мой,_ ” Bucky whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache and gather his patience. He was definitely going to need it

The red-haired man in the bowler hat, the same one who’d helped Bucky get to his feet before, gave a hearty laugh and licked the blood from his lips. “Hell of a right cross there, Frenchie.” The scalding curses that followed were imaginative and amusing, but they mercifully appeared to be only gibberish to him.

A third man shouldered his way between them suddenly. He held his arms up in a placating manner and made sure he’d gotten their attention. “ _Calmer s’il vous plaît_!” Curiously, unlike the other man, his accent betrayed that French was not his native language. He placed a gentle hand on the Frenchman’s chest and cast him a scrutinizing stare. “ _Ce sont notre frères_ ,” he pleaded, and in the faint light filtering into their prison cell, the worry lines could hardly be discerned from the rest of his face, but they were assuredly there.

In return for the conciliatory efforts, the Frenchman nearly spit in his face when he shoved him away. “ _Casse-toi_!”

"Not hurt over a little joke there, are ya?" The grin on the redhead was as wild as his mustache, and his stance was cockier than was good for him. A man like that was just _begging_ to have his ass handed to him.

Obviously, the Frenchman agreed. He swung wide his right fist, but was stopped from hitting home by a meaty forearm. It was closely tailed by a left jab with none of the same finesse and twice as much power. That blow landed solidly in the gut, knocking the wind out of the redheaded man.

With a seething hiss, he doubled in on himself, his knees fixing something awful on the ground. If Bucky was a betting man, he'd have said that the redhead was down for the count, considering the old adage of big men and falling.

Instead, he surprised the hell out of them all and dove at his opponent's legs. They both tumbled hard away from the center and into the bars of the cell. No one looked close to stepping in between this time, not even the other Francophone.

By that point, Bucky was well over the novelty of a fight. He pushed into their tussle and pulled them to their feet, holding each back with a single hand. The Frenchman shoved back, but he couldn’t break the hold of the metal arm. Still, Bucky grabbed him by his shirt collar, mindful of the gleam on his little finger, and leaned in close, breathing, “ _qu'est-ce tu fais_?”

The Frenchman wrinkled his nose, surprise and disgust evident. His lip curled halfway between a snarl and a grimace. “ _Laisse-moi tranquille_!”

“ _Ferme ta gueule_ ,” Bucky growled, his face devoid of emotion. He wasn’t about to be thrown off topic for want of a few breath mints, and so he pointed behind himself with his flesh hand. “ _C'est un branleur. T’es con. Ça me fait chier. Arrêtez_! _D'accord_?”

Eyes narrowed, the Frenchman look a deep breath through his nose and nodded slowly. His will to fight had been drained, at least for the moment. Exhaustion, reflected in his glassy eyes, had finally taken its toll, and far more quickly than a sedative would have.

Bucky uncurled his metal fingers and released him, then spun around on his heel. He looked at each of the others in turn, hoping to curtail an arguments they may have had. Even those in other cells remained speechless. Straightening his spine, he faced the bruised redhead with a cooler head than he’d expected to have. “What’s your name?”

The frown he received coupled with a pinched ginger brow made Bucky apprehensive. It would be better in the long run if things were kept calm. Even if an unruly soldier posed little threat to him, a slight problem was still a problem to be dealt with. “Corporal Dugan, 69th Infantry Division,” the man answered with a defiant tone that Bucky didn’t have the patience to acknowledge.

“Well, _Corporal_ , I’m Sergeant James Barnes of the 1st Rangers. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but since you’ve already gone and made an ass out of yourself, I’ll assume you’re not one for pleasantries.” The redhead snorted, but the hard look on his face settled a bit, and Bucky knew he’d gotten past the wall of spite.

I’m just gonna go ahead and tell you now that you’d be wise to get some sleep. Don’t know what it is they got planned, but no way it’s good.” Bucky got the feeling that whatever it was, they would have to be on their best game if they wanted to last long at all.

And dammit, but he was right.

|~|

When they were finally attended to four hours later, most of the men had fallen into a fitful sleep. For those that had managed to nod off for more than a handful of minutes, fatigue was more likely to blame than their own willingness. They all were restless and fearful, but keeping their eyes open proved to be a far more difficult task than they were capable of dealing with after all they had been through.

Of those Bucky could see, the black man who had spoken in accented French and a rather mousey-looking guy in a raspberry beret had both staved off rest for the entire four hours. From the steady tide of breathing he could hear, they were probably the only ones to make it that long.

Bucky himself was sufficiently alert, though the same fatigue clawed at the back of his eyes in a way that was more bothersome than he would prefer. Even as lax on his programming as he was, he could make it at least 72 hours without popping Provigil, but that seemed an unlikely aide to count on in the current situation. He had to admire those two for staying awake without receiving similar training to him.

Though he couldn’t tell beneath the gear if the Stormtrooper that had come to get them was someone he’d already seen, the simple fact was that it wasn’t likely. With how many of them circulated the complex, there was little reason to send the same foot soldier twice, not when an attachment could possibly grow. His Laszlo was nowhere in sight for instance, and yeah, Bucky knew full well that the kid was technically on the opposing side, but he was still a _kid_. A bit of affectionate worry was only natural, most especially with him having younger siblings around the boy’s age.

The long walk to their new workplace wasn’t nearly long enough to distract Bucky from the dread gnawing at his stomach. The brisk open air and small ration of food they had received on another trip to the latrines had livened up some of their lot, but the stench of sickness still hung around a few of them, and the longer residents of the prison were by far faring much worse.

Silence bred dangerous thoughts. Luckily, he wasn’t left to his own devices for very long.

Corporal Dugan, sporting a fine shiner as a trophy, situated himself at Bucky’s right once they’d gotten inside the main building. Rather than dampening his mood, the fight hours ago seemed to have invigorated him. He kept up with Bucky’s strides confidently, a grin splitting his face.

“You seem like a smart fella, Sergeant.”

Bucky frowned. “Oh, yeah? What makes you think that?”

“I’ve been watching you,” Dugan said, his voice low. “You’ve always got one eye on the lookout for something. Weaknesses, maybe. A gap in their defense.”

“So what if I am? It’s called tactical thinking. Anyone with half a brain would do the same.”

Dugan shook his head. “See, I’m thinkin’ it’s something else. I felt the kinda strength you got. You could give these bulls a real run for their money if you wanted to. So why ain’t you lookin’ to fight? Or run? I figure that you must want to look like you’re behind the eight ball. Just can’t decide whether it’s for us or for them.”

“Interesting idea.” And not entirely untrue. Bucky didn’t need to keep swinging his gaze around. Hadn’t needed to do that for years now, but especially not with what little information there was to gather here. It couldn’t hurt to make the rest of the world believe otherwise, though.

“Not just an idea. You weren’t out on the battlefield with us. You came after that, I remember. You let yourself be captured. And I don’t know if you’re telling the truth about who you are, but I do know that you’ve got something big planned.”

Bucky didn’t have a concrete plan just yet, but he was working through something, and he’d seen enough television to know that it took more than just that to make a clean getaway.

“And if I do have something planned?”

Dugan’s eyes narrowed, and the rest of his face became unreadable. He was real quiet for a moment, then he nodded. “I’m in for raising a little hell,” he said with a small smile and a hint of satisfaction. Then be broke away from Bucky’s side.

Huh. It seemed he knew the right man to go to. Hopefully, Bucky wasn’t giving off those kind of vibes to everyone; that would just fuck everything up.

Whatever fragments of a plan he’d scraped together in his head went out the window the moment they stepped onto the factory floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Боже мой_ \- Oh my god (Natasha's line at the beginning of the Avengers movie)  
>  _Calmer s’il vous plaît!_ \- Please calm down!  
>  _Ce sont notre frères_ \- These are our brothers (in this case as in allies)  
>  _Casse-toi!_ \- Fuck off!  
>  _Qu'est-ce tu fais_ \- What are you doing?  
>  _Laisse-moi tranquille!_ \- Leave me alone!  
>  _Ferme ta gueule_ \- Shut up  
>  _C'est un branleur_ \- He is a wanker  
>  _T'es con_ \- You are an idiot  
>  _Ça me fait chier_ \- It pisses me off  
>  _Arrêtez!_ \- Stop!  
>  _D'accord?_ \- Okay?
> 
> So not only late, but a lot more translations than I'd prefer. I'm sorry (I tried to put a heart here but it doesn't work :c)


	8. Chapter 8

Steam hissed from the largest contraption at the heart of the production line, adding obscene humidity to the list of reasons why Bucky kind of hated life. As if conditions weren’t optimal enough for the growth of funk and filth. The polished floors may have smelled like turpentine, but they were in no way clean.

The whole floor seemed to be made up of relatively new machinery, so based on the leaking pipes and corroded structures, they were going to be working with something volatile. Acidic compounds, explosive materials.

A line of fire shot toward the ceiling off to the right and the lot of them startled. He half expected to hear screams of agony accompanying the show, but there was nothing over the din of the work.

Did anyone care that there were about a thousand accents waiting to happen? It didn’t seem like the kind of place PESH or OSHA would have ever approved of, but then again, secret Hydra factories wouldn’t have to stand up to state or federal scrutiny. None of the workers were wearing protective gear, despite the very real danger present, and it was a wonder that they weren’t missing eyebrows or even entire limbs.

Not himself, of course, but that wasn’t as much a workplace accident as it was a fucked up Russian scientist who didn’t get the memo that communism was dead and that super soldier projects were now considered war crimes.

If there was an upside to it all, it would have to be that the lack of regulations made chaos more expected. Any response to action could be delayed with the right conditions, and it might not take a lot of provocation to get a riot started.

They surprisingly weren’t sized up and assigned tasks that best fit him. Maybe that was something they would change as their captors saw fit, but for the moment, they were told to disperse themselves as evenly as they could between three jobs.

The first was pushing carts around. Some contained raw materials, others half-finished products, but never anything that looked complete. It made sense that they weren’t going to be trusted with whatever they were helping to build, with as dangerous as the objects seemed to see.

The second job had people sorting through the contents of the carts and making sure things got to the right destinations. Their hands were shuffling wildly on tabletops as a well-oiled machine.

Third, and possibly the most dangerous, involved melting down scrap metal and setting them in molds to make new pieces. Getting near a forge of unknown heat seemed like a spectacularly bad idea, especially with the burst of flames they had seen earlier.

It wasn’t a choice at all. Bucky couldn’t let too much attention be drawn to his arm, and he actually cared about his hair enough to want to keep it from getting burned. He broke off from the heard and situated himself at the nearest cart. He peered inside, curiosity getting the better of him. The assumption that there was nothing finished was corrected, and he shrugged his shoulders. Paranoid minds were easy to track.

There were two men manning a cart, but he glared at anyone who tried join him. The task was one he could manage by himself, no problem, and he didn’t want anyone to try to chat him up. Bucky took a deep breath and wondered how long they were going to be at it for.

Hours of repetitive movements rolled on. Push the cart to one station, and then onto the next. It was boring as hell, and he was running out of ways to keep his mind occupied. Using just his metal arm had been amusing for all of about a minute, and there was no tune he could hum or whistle that wouldn’t have everyone staring.

Attention was kind of the reason he avoided bold moves for the most part in life. Walk the walk, talk the talk, and fly under the radar; that was his motto. He tried his best to live by it, and usually only failed during an episode. He bit his lip to ground himself, thankful that at least he wasn’t the only one subjected to the madness.

As he passed by the Frenchman for a third time, a hand wave caught his attention. Bucky halted his steps abruptly, glancing warily at the guards positioned at seven strategic points. Not one of them appeared attentive, and none were turned even remotely his way. He slunk over to other man’s sorting station without much care for secrecy.

“ _Quoi_?” He kept his voice low out of habit more than necessity.

" _Merci, Monsieur_ Barnes,” he whispered in turn. “ _À propos d'hier... Désolé. Ç'est ma faute_."

Bucky blinked, certainly not expecting an apology. He didn’t need one and quite frankly, he thought the move was stupid. But he supposed that he appreciated it nonetheless. " _Y'a pas de souci_ ," Bucky said, gazing at his shoes, not sure what else to say. After a moment of silence between them, neither willing to elaborate, the both turned away to get back to work.

That had hardly been worth the pause. Except maybe to prove that they were under a much lighter watch than the guards would have them believe, and that was indeed worth keeping in mind.

|~|

As the day wound down and they filled their arbitrary quota, an ache settled into his bones. The toll it exacted wasn’t inordinate, but rather something Bucky would have to suffer through. Just like they had all suffered through the meager rations of moldy bread and mystery meat stew that the Hydra goons dared to call a meal. Although enough to settle the worst of the monsters in their stomachs, there was no use in pretending it was satisfactory. It allowed most of the men to drop right to sleep when they returned to their cells, and that would have to be enough.

For Bucky, it never would be. A naturally high metabolism had him eating near constantly on a normal day. Combined with his constant state of vigilance, that meant it was going be a long walk to dawn.

The air was calm and quiet, absent of crickets and marching boots and all those things he might have expected to hear. Even the stifled sobs that all the soldiers chose not to acknowledge failed to permeate the strange stillness. With his superior senses, it was unnerving that Bucky couldn’t detect signs of life.

Compounds like this didn’t just shut down when the sun set, and given that a good third of the prisoners were absent, it stood to reason that production was among the activities that continued. Beyond occasional pace of the guard above who seemed to keep bihourly rounds, though, he could only hear the steady thump of his heart beating. Bucky’s eyelids drooped slightly, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be lulled to sleep in such a dangerous situation. The intermittent periods of rest he managed while working during the day could sustain him.

While he was no stranger to sleep deprivation (thank you Red Room nightmares and medication-induced insomnia), there were usually more things to occupy his time. Video games and his right hand had become his dearest companions after many a lonely night, but neither of those were options now.

What he wouldn’t give for a shower.

To get the blood flowing, Bucky rolled his shoulders, and his eyes landed on the only other person who remained conscious. The guy who’d spoken in accented in French, who stood out like a sore thumb the way he was given a wide berth by captives and captors alike, looked no more ready to rest Bucky himself was. It was curious that the man appeared to have an exceptional ability stay awake, as he had gone the night before without sleep as well. Yet there he stood, back pressed against the bars and hands pillowed behind him, looking far more alert than he had any right to.

The hour turned, and Bucky counted the steps in the ceiling moving away before he threw caution to the wind and whistled to grab the other prisoner’s attention. “You planning on giving up anytime soon?”

“Are you?” Well that answered a few questions. He definitely spoke English.

“Hell no,” Bucky said, folding his arms and mirroring the man’s position. “You’re American.”

A nod, but it wasn’t a question. “Born and raised.”

“Where at?”

“Macon, Georgia. Went to college there, too.”

“Wish I’d gone to college.” Definitely not in the cards anymore.

“There a reason you’re talking to me?” Bucky wasn’t expected any sort of hostility, but there it was. He had his shoulders stiff, his chest puffed out, and his arms were crossed tightly.

“Only trying to make friendly conversation, man. If we’re both gonna be awake, might as well be cordial.”

“How kind of you,” the man answered with a hard stare and a flat tone.

Bucky swallowed and cleared his throat, not unnerved by lack of warmth. “I get the feeling you think I’m full of shit.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Look, most everyone here’s been giving you the cold shoulder so I understand thinking I’d do the same. But I’m not gonna treat you any different on account of your skin color, and you start thinking I am, I’d appreciate you kicking my ass for it.”

It took a second for him to respond. Probably trying to figure out if Bucky was serious or not. “Really, now.”

“Yeah. Being white’s no excuse for being a dick to anyone, so why don’t you tell me all about the life of a homegrown boy from Macon and I’ll be jealous about all those peaches you’ve had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Quoi?_ \- what?  
>  _Merci, Monsieur_ Barnes - thank you Mr. Barnes  
>  _À propos d'hier_ \- about yesterday  
>  _Désolé_ \- I'm sorry  
>  _Ç'est ma faute_ \- it's my fault  
>  _Y'a pas de souci_ \- no problem
> 
> It's still Thursday here so I'm not yet late. Also, as uncomfortable as I was writing that last bit (hi recluse white person here), I was a lot more uncomfortable just ignoring the issue of race entirely given the time period and all. So _please_ let me know if I mishandled that.


	9. Chapter 9

There’s an explosion. Then another. Right and left, everything is being blast to kingdom come, leaving thick clouds of dust and smoke in the air. He’s panting, mouth as dry as the desert around him, as he crawls his way forward to the next defensible position.

The flashes are disturbing his night vision, and he’s only got his squad leader’s word that he’s not headed in the wrong direction entirely. Even then, an IED in his path will kill him before enemy guns have the chance to. Helmet fire’s dancing around in his ears, but he can’t tell what’s being said. There’s only the repeated command that their orders are to enter the building and secure it with as little casualties as possible.

Those were the orders, before they realized they were going straight into an ambush.

He’s got his rifle gripped close, but there’s no use for it yet. There is no gunfire, no sign that there’s anything to shoot at. ‘ _Wait for orders_ ,’ he thinks, taking a deep breath. ‘ _Don’t break cover lookin’ for a fight_.’

“ _Barnes_!” Sergeant Mills’s voice rings in his ear. “ _Unarmed hostile at your four, 50 meters and approaching. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage_.”

“Roger,” he croaks, but the temptation to look is too great. He looks around, his pulse erratic. Standing right there is a disfigured creature, tall, with slick, translucent skin, and a head like skin melded with bone. It’s got no weapon, but it could still tear him to shreds, and it’s coming right for him.

His legs are locked up and he can’t make them move. The blood is draining from his face as the thing gets closer and closer. There’s a blue light all around it, and he can’t see anymore. The world has gone black, but then he feels the cold breath of the creature hit his cheeks, and he knows he’s going to die. Far off, he can hear someone scream his name as he welcomes death’s sweet embrace…

|~|

Heart pounding, Bucky jolted awake. His eyes frantically searched for any sign of the creature at the corners of his vision, desperate to find both something and nothing. Flesh hand grasping for the pistol holstered at his thigh, a shiver ran up his spine. He needed to shot the damn thing dead before it—

There was nothing. No creature, no explosions, and no gun to reach for. Bucky squeezed his hand into a tight fist, his nails biting into his palm, and he drew in air slowly. He counted to five on the draw, another five on the hold, and ten on the release, then repeated.

On the third breath, his senses returned. The foul smell of huddled masses was sharp and clear, as was the sounds of distant coughs. He was surrounded by cool, grey steel, not a desert, and the air was calm.

It was only a nightmare.

Bucky sighed and used the collar of his shirt to clear the cold sweat from his face. Even though he couldn’t recall when he’d fallen asleep, he would make sure not to do it again. Nightmares like that weren’t something easily shaken off, and he’d rather not have to deal with any more of them.

After such a disturbed awakening, he carried through the day worse than if he had gotten no sleep at all. The thought of forcing down even the meager amount of food they would be given made his stomach roil. However, this morning, they were given only acrid black coffee and twice the amount of water from the previous day. Four cups instead of two, which shouldn’t have felt as much of a luxury as it did.

Really, he was grateful for the extra hydration, as the heat and humidity had become stifling by midday. It had gotten to the point where he was stopping every fifteen minutes or so to wipe the sweat from his brow, and he had lost his sweatshirt somewhere along the way. His favorite hoodie was long gone by the time he had thought to look for it, but he wasn’t the least bit upset. A part of him wished he could shuck off the Henley that stuck to his back, too, but it was hard enough keeping his left hand out of sight by wrapping it in rags. There was no way he would be able to get away with doing that for his whole arm.

Sweat began to drip into his eyes, forcing him to stop once more. He pushed his hair behind his ear, knowing that it wouldn’t stay there for very long, and grimaced at the greasy knots. It was going to take a miracle to salvage after this, and his mother would happily take a razor to his head herself if it meant getting rid of his “disgusting rat’s nest of a hairdo”. The thought almost brought a smile to his face before he remembered that he shouldn’t have been thinking too hard about what “after” looked like.

Bucky pushed his weight against the cart, giving all the appearance of catching his breath while glancing in turn at each of the guards. Three of the seven couldn’t see him from their positions, and two had fucked off to god knew where. Yesterday they hadn’t returned until just before work ended, and they would probably do the same today.

That left two of them, each standing by a door. Neither appeared to be doing their jobs terribly, but their two hour shift was just about up. In a matter of moments, their relief would appear. Only after the guards had already left their posts, though.

This Hydra incarnation was shit at security. Nothing at all like what the Soldier had to go through on some of missions. Possibly, they were only soft at watching the prisoners, not warding against potential intruders. Still, they seriously underestimated their flaws, and that was to Bucky’s gain.

Right on cue, the men guarding the doors abandoned position, and Bucky made his move. He utilized the oversized machinery as best he could to avoid the line of sight of any of the guards still on duty, keeping watch overhead on the off chance that he had miscalculated. Work continued, and no one so much as glanced at him as he slipped away without any trouble.

He passed through the door found himself in the same long corridor they had originally been brought through. His mental map had indeed been correct, not that he had doubted it would be, and he began running quickly toward the end, keeping his footsteps light.

As he neared what he knew to be the door that led outside, the sound of two men talking echoed from around the corner. There would be the changing of the guard. Thankfully, he had planned for something like this. He spun on his feet and ducked into alcove off to the side and out of sight.

Counting the steps as they passed, he held his breath and surveyed the spot he’d chosen to hide. It wasn’t an alcove as he’d thought, but rather a stairwell. After the men had long since passed, Bucky craned his neck upward to follow the steps. There was only one flight, and it was possibly that it led to a better vantage point than the way he had been thinking.

Bucky took care that the metal didn’t reverberate too loudly as he climbed, and paused once he crested. Another corridor lay before him that paralleled the one below. It, too, was empty, but this one was lined with windows on one wall. They were fully open, allowing a much welcomed cross-breeze to flow in.

Almost unthinkingly, he walked toward the nearest one, eager for more fresh air. Just outside the window was an accessible rooftop. From a brief surveillance, Bucky believed that it was well hidden from any watchtowers and could provide a pleasant reprieve from the constant supervision. It was an opportunity he couldn’t allow himself to pass up, and he lifted himself through the window and out into the daylight.

The fact that there was someone already out there on the roof was a curveball he sure as hell didn’t see coming.


	10. Chapter 10

There often comes a time when one can either take life at face value or continue asking questions until whatever they were avoiding kills them. Of course, we don’t really get a final say in where the road will take us, but we do have the option to deny it all until our dying breaths.

For Bucky, this came on what would otherwise have been considered a lovely afternoon. It was overcast, likely to rain soon, but the rays of sun kissing his skin made it all worthwhile. That was if one ignored that he was currently being held captive, and that the only reason he was outside at all was that he had wandered out onto the rooftop for a reconnaissance foray.

Oh, and the life-sized Ken doll dressed up like battle-ready Captain America running toward him certainly dampened his mood, too.

“Who the fuck are—”

He was cut off mid-sentence when the guy barreled in to him, leading them both to a hard fall that Bucky got the worst of. A stray shingle dug into his lower back, and the good old captain put all his weight on him in a way that he would have found distressing if he actually had the time to _think_.

Instead, he was guided by instinct to bring up his arms, crossed in a manner to block the hit aimed right for his jaw. Bucky could feel the man shifting his legs for what would be a hard kick, and he knew he had to stop it. He twisted his hands into the captain’s shirt and rolled them over, making sure not to roll them right off the edge. Now he was the one looming over, pressing his opponent into the roof. He grabbed the captain’s shoulders as he started to squirm, attempting to gain the momentum to move.

“Whoa there, big guy,” Bucky breathed out with a humorless laugh. “I think you might be lookin’ for the Nazis inside.”

The man dressed as Captain America stopped struggling, and looked at him from under the brim of his helmet with wide eyes. “You’re not Hydra?”

He nearly scoffed at the suggestion. Bucky shook his head and pushed himself off to the side. “Last time I checked, they weren’t going door-to-door recruiting in Brooklyn.” However, the last time Bucky had checked, they didn’t exist at all.

The captain stood up and held out his arm. “You’re from Brooklyn.” Bucky nodded, taking the proffered hand that helped him stand. The feeling of strong hands dusting him off wasn’t nearly as jarring as thought it would be, but the hit on his right bicep could have been a little softer. “Me too. Us Brooklyn boys gotta stick together, right?”

Bucky huffed and rubbed his lower back. “Yeah, sure…”

Embarrassed, the captain looked away. He rubbed his nose briefly and licked his chapped lips. “Err… sorry. I’m in a hurry.”

That was it. The moment it all hit him suddenly. At that point, there was little use in trying to deny it: Hydra, Germans, Captain America. As best Bucky could figure, he had traveled through time and somehow ended up in Nazi-occupied Europe.

First man to travel through time. And his high school counselor said he would never get anywhere in life.

“You’re here to rescue us,” Bucky said simply, and the captain nodded. “Might’ve been better to come at night.”

“Couldn’t waste any time. Still can’t.”

“Well, alright. Let’s get started, then.”

“We need to do this as quickly as possible, and with as little bloodshed as we can. Are you up for that?” Bucky swallowed hard, thinking back to the nightmare that disturbed him the previous night. Caught up in his mind, he almost gave the same hoarse response, too, before he remembered himself.

“Think I could have gotten myself out on the roof if I wasn’t capable of that?”

The captain gave him a small but true smile and nodded. “No, I guess not.”

In return, Bucky gave a shaky smile, trying and failing to mirror the confident look. He set his hands on the windowsill and concentrated on the contrast in feeling between the left and right while he thought through a plan. Hesitating was a deadly mistake, though, and the captain was right: there was no time to waste. As always, he had to shoot straight and true.

With one last lungful of fresh air, he hauled himself back inside. The humidity returned quickly has he made his way down the stairs but the slight gust from the captain following gave a slight reprieve. It made sense now given the weather. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

At the bottom of the stairs, Bucky paused to take a look around the corner. There was no one in sight, and he couldn’t hear anything other than the steady puffs of breath at the nape of his neck. After making the sprint down the hallway, he stopped them once more just outside the door to the factory floor, out of view of the small window.

He wiped the sweat from his palms on his now thread-bare jeans before knocking twice. It was a bold ploy.

But it worked.

The guard opened the door, and Bucky closed it on his head. He heard a sickening crunch, but it came from inside his own head. It was a memory; faint, hardly there at all. Undoubtedly, it was another name crossed of the Soldier’s hit list, but Bucky didn’t know when it occurred. The man before him now was dead, the skull still intact this time around. Only a bit more pressure would rectify that.

Bucky let off after a moment and pulled the guard into the hallway, catching the door before it closed completely. He leaned the body up against the wall and used an unpolished boot to keep the door propped open slightly. Squatting down, he checked the man from head to toe for anything useful and stoutly kept from looking behind him. He could just imagine a look of disapproval from Captain America. The legitimate _actual_ Captain America.

On second thought, he might have to turn around and take a look at his face because damn. Captain America. All sexual thoughts aside, it still kind of blew his mind that the man who had his back was the same guy who helped lead the Allies to victory in World War II. Or rather would one day do so, Bucky supposed. They were smack in the middle of the war still, and if he remembered his history lessons right, then there was still a good year and a half until V-day.

In the end Bucky filched two guns from the unconscious man. The one he had been armed with was a strange looking device that he doubted shot lead bullets. It was any man’s guess as to just what kind of ammo it used, but he was kinda eager to find out. The other one was a Luger holstered at the man’s hip, an oldie but a goodie, and Bucky tucked that one into his waistband for later.

“You’ll have to tell me sometime how you slipped out in the first place.” The captain’s words brought him back to reality, and Bucky finally did turn around once he stood up. Surprisingly, he wasn’t met with a look of disapproval, but instead one of impatience.

He cocked an eyebrow and almost smiled. “Buy me a drink first and I’ll tell you whatever you want, sweetheart.” Bucky swung his head back toward the door so quickly he thought his neck might break. That had definitely come out far flirtier that he wanted it to. Now was very much _not_ the right time to hit on someone.

Was there ever a right time to make a move on a straight-laced guy like Captain America? Regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, the captain deigned no response. That was just as well considering Bucky wasn’t in the mood for 1940s-brand homophobia.

Bucky kicked the boot aside and pulled the door open slowly, careful of the noise. Ducking his head in proved solidly enough that no one inside could tell anything was amiss. There was no sign of a disturbance, so the two of them slipped in unnoticed.

Directly off to one side was a stack of crates. Hidden from view, but easy enough to access. That was where Bucky skittered off to immediately with a set of slightly too loud footsteps following close behind. He crouched down, snuck a look at the met at work, then turned to look the captain right in the eye.

“Wait here. I’m going to create a distraction. When I do, you take out the goon over there.” He pointed to where the other door lay just out of sight. “Then if by some chance I haven’t taken out the other three, come help me.”

Even though he had absolutely no authority in the situation, Bucky hoped he would be listened to. It was the best way to avoid a slaughter at their end. There was a look of hesitance about the captain, but a quick look around the room had him nodding. “Think you can take all of them at once?”

With a wicked grin, Bucky stood up, resting the large gun over his shoulder. “With both arms tied behind my back and a block of cement chained to my leg.”

As he walked toward the center of the room, Bucky didn’t even try to hide himself. Everyone stopped working to look at him, just as he knew they would. He caught Dugan’s eye as he passed, giving him a nod, and started counting the seconds until the guards reacted.

“Look alive boys,” he called out as the Hydra soldiers jumped to attention. “It’s about high time we kick things into gear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long block of notes ahoy.
> 
> First and foremost, a confession. I didn't intend to have Steve come in here this chapter, but the idea wouldn't leave my head. So I decided fuck the timeline, threw out what I had written, and I actually like this a lot better. ~~Although you guys have no idea how much I wanted to put "Winter is coming" as the last line Bucky said.~~
> 
> Now, concerning the mental health issues tag:
> 
> I won't address the litany of diagnoses that Bucky likely has, because A) I'm not a trained professional, and B) I don't want there to be a preconceived notions of how he "should" be acting. That having been said, for those of you unfamiliar with mental health issues, they aren't always consistent. For a personal example, I had very few difficulties walking around by myself in the capital city of a foreign country with a high crime rate where I didn't speak a lick of the language and there were some violent protests going on at the time. But tell me to go take a walk around my own city, with a relatively low crime rate, and that I'm familiar with? Yeah, I break out into a cold sweat. The point is that the way Bucky was acting in the first few chapters (mainly the first chapter), and the way he is acting now/will act in the future do not cancel each other out, and I am very much aware of how different they are.
> 
> In addition, I didn't state this in the story, but from the point that Bucky woke up in the woods until he woke up from the nightmare, he was detoxing from his psychotropic medications. Depending upon the medications, it can potentially be a lot worse than the bouts of apathy and hysteria he experienced. It is not fun, it is never recommended, and I would like to say now that I don't mean to imply that Bucky does better off his medications. It's a delicate situation to say the least.
> 
> Finally, if you have read thus far, you are amazing. Seriously. I cannot overstate just how much I appreciate those comments and kudos and everything. Is it too early to say the l word? :3


	11. Chapter 11

The plan went fairly smooth, although he couldn’t say it was without a hitch. From the get-go, Bucky knew that there would be at least two things that would go wrong if they were particularly lucky. And they weren’t all that lucky, despite the forces of good and evil and fate and whatever that had brought him to that place and that time with those people.

He had counted three guards fixed in positions that would hide them from all but the well-trained eye. There were only two running for him at the outset, one behind him and one to the left. They were far enough away that the more immediate threat was the guy shooting at him.

One fizzling blast of light off to the side, then two more. Whatever was coming out of those guns, it was easy enough to dodge since they weren’t exactly the stealthiest projectiles. Bucky fired back, but he only needed a single shot to take down the target.

The recoil was something nasty and he shifted the gun to his right arm without a thought. Later, Bucky would begrudge the ease with which he had once handled a powerful weapon. Now, he was too focused on not crushing a man’s windpipe to think about when his body was whole.

The man’s last gasps of breath were fleeing from between his teeth, but yet again, Bucky didn’t go the full length to kill him. The reason escaped him, but it lay rooted in whatever tendrils of humanity he could drudge up from within his husk of a soul. Though if he was like any other Hydra soldier, a cyanide capsule hidden in a tooth would bring about his demise regardless of Bucky’s mercy.

Bucky relaxed his vice grip and the man dropped to the floor unconscious. He spun around to deal with the remaining foe, his fate just as certain, but was met with a welcome and unwelcome sight.

Corporal Dugan, his fiery hair a good reflection of his bearing, stood poised above the remaining soldier with his fist held high. He was grinning wildly with the rush of triumph, but his eyes still shone with a light of good humor. It had only taken one good sucker punch, and Bucky was a little sore that he hadn’t been given the chance to take him out himself.

Damn his competitive nature for having taken up Captain America’s challenge.

Speaking of, the good captain himself came running over just then. He had a flimsy-looking shield strapped to his arm that looked completely different from his iconic one, the one that was all over posters and comic books. His ragtag appearance still managed to inspire a flicker of hope in Bucky, something had long thought himself incapable of emoting.

He cleared his throat, the beginnings of a smile creeping on his lips. "The floor is ours," Bucky said projecting his voice to the far corners.

For a moment, the only sound he heard was the reverberation of his own voice and the distant press of pipes and gears. The cheer that followed was as deafening as he expected and filled with twice the passion he thought they had left to give. He should have known better; a soldier's tenacity should never be underestimated.

“We still need to get out of here.” The captain was ignoring any strange looks the men were sending his way, but a strain at the corner of his eyes told Bucky he wasn’t unaffected by the staring.

Taking one good look at him, Dugan let out a mocking laugh. “And just who the hell are you supposed to be?”

“I’m, uh… I’m Captain America.”

Not one of them seemed to recognize the name or the figure himself, putting the final nail in Bucky’s coffin of suspicion. This had to have been Captain America’s first mission, the one where he went behind enemy lines by himself to rescue over 200 prisoners of war.

Only, there weren’t nearly 200 men in the room at the moment.

“There’s still some men locked up,” said the man Bucky now knew to be called Gabe Jones, voicing his thoughts.

“And there aren’t nearly enough weapons for just us,” Dugan said. “We don’t have a spitball’s chance in hell it out of here alive.”

Even though he was partially to blame for the incident, Bucky couldn’t help but feel himself to be a voyeur an historic moment. He alone knew that they were going to make it out, and better yet, that they were going to be able to get all the way back to Allied territory with little trouble. It was an unfair advantage that curdled in his stomach and made him feel ashamed that he wasn’t going to speak up.

Because of course he wasn’t. Anyone who was even the slightest bit familiar with time travel literature knew the three most important rules: one, you can’t go back in time and kill Hitler; two, you must not interfere with your personal timeline; and three, don’t talk time travel.

Time Traveler’s Guilt. He should have known that was coming.

The man with the raspberry beret stepped forward, hitherto having kept silent. He cleared his throat and softly suggested: “If we can get to the main floor, there will be plenty of arms to go around.”

“Main floor?”

Bucky didn’t know there was a main floor.

Another man, an Asian guy who Bucky was fairly certain had not arrived with the bulk of the, spoke up. “Main floor’s not too far from here, but it’s crawling with enemy soldiers.”

Dugan huffed. “And we’re supposed to just take the word of some Chinaman?”

“I’m from Fresno, ace,” the man replied, holding his dog tags out inches from his face. “As American as they come.”

“Not that it matters,” said Raspberry Beret with a condescending tone. Perhaps that was just his English accent, though, that made it seem that way. “We’re actually at war with Japan, not China.”

“Look,” the captain said, his tone leaving little room for debate. “We need to focus right now. Take some men and go get any of the prisoners not already here.” Eyes locked on Jones, he then looked at the Asian man and Raspberry Beret. “With surprise on our side, think we can take the main floor?”

They exchanged a look of raised eyebrows and nodding heads. “If we’re quick about it.”

“Then we’ll be quick about it,” Bucky said. There were no objections and quite a few grunts of agreement. Everyone seemed ready to get started sooner rather than later.

“There’s still the isolation ward,” Jones said. Fuck, he had totally forgotten about that. Over the course of the handful of days they had been interned at the compound, several men, too sick to work, had been dragged away, some kicking and screaming. They were lucky to not have been shot like the man on that long march.

Or perhaps they had. No one was quite certain, as none had ever returned.

“Not gonna leave a man behind.”

It was the Ranger’s Creed, and a sentiment Bucky could wholeheartedly agree with. “I’ll go check out the isolation ward. I can handle myself well enough.”

The captain met his gaze unflinchingly. “I’ll go too.”

Bucky should have said no. Even in his worst state of minds, he was more likely to succeed on his own on a mission like that. He should have just run off and checked the isolation ward himself, leaving the captain to lead the other men in the fight.

But instead, Bucky said _yes_.

“Everyone else, head for the main floor. The tree line is northwest, 80 yards past the gate. Get out fast and give ‘em hell. We’ll meet you in the clearing along with anyone else we find.” If there was anyone else to find.

A resounding cry of agreement swallowed the room, and for a moment, Bucky could pretend that he was one of them. Just a soldier trying to fight his way home. It was technically true, after all.

When they split off, he and Captain America running alongside one another, it became harder to convince himself that he was _just_ anything.


	12. Chapter 12

If Bucky found it odd that they ran into no trouble as they sprinted down yet another hallway, he didn't dare comment on it. He had very strong opinions on how this entire place was run, objectively speaking, but as it was an enemy compound, he ought not to complain. Only the loud slap of the captain's absurd boots hitting the floor filled the void of time. And oh, was it a void. Neither of them seemed particularly strained by their never-ending dash, and in fact their pace could almost be considered leisurely for a couple of super soldiers.

Many of the stories about Captain America and the Howling Commandos were filled with daring rescues and close-call escapes, but this was almost pedestrian. Running, running. A brief fight. More running. There was a war going on, and yet this was supposedly the crazy stuff. True, the distant sound of gunfire eventually rang out, but they themselves did not have to reach for their weapons. There was no discord, no science-fiction type violence, and Bucky had to wonder if it wasn't all just embellishment and propaganda.

They turned a corner and at last there was a break in the monotony. Ahead was a stout man who had frozen at the sight of them, one shaking hand putting his hat on and the other clutching a briefcase and paperwork close to him. He was most certainly not a soldier, but Hydra never made use of civilians.

An instant passed and the man broke out into a run. Like a bullet released from its chamber, Bucky shot after him. It was a nearly instantaneous reaction on a gut instinct that he should not be allowed to escape. At some point Bucky found himself alone in the chase. Where the captain had gone was a question best saved for after the objective was achieved. Right then he had to be focused.

The man was just an arm’s length away when he turned around mid-step, his eyes wide with terror. Bucky only had to reach out to wipe the familiar expression away. But it wasn’t all that was familiar.

Something lit up in Bucky’s mind. An old memory, or a Pavlovian response. It urged him to stop, to obey. He could hear the man’s voice in his head, his sadistic laugh ringing in his ears. He knew this man.

Why did he know this man? He couldn’t understand, his thoughts were a calamitous vortex whirling every which way, and the next thing he knew, he had the man pinned up against the all with his metal arm, so close to snuffing the life out of him.

“Why do I know you?” He shouted, and his voice broke with distress, but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop anything.

The man, having been left with a free hand from dropping his papers, grabbed at the metal fingers, tried in vain to claw them open. His lips were moving, as if trying to stutter out a response, but no words came out. Bucky would never know if the man had actually been able to say anything, or if he just couldn’t hear him past his own thoughts.

“Why do I know you,” he repeated, trying to pretend he was still in control. He mostly still was, but there was a part of him he hated that reared its ugly head.

It looked like the man didn’t know either. But he must. This man was one of the ones to steal his memories, to erase his identity, to make him something other than human. He needed answers; he need to know _why_.

There was a loud bang as the briefcase hit the floor hard, and the ringing in his ears refused to stop. Time slowed to a trickle, with mere seconds passing by like minutes. Or perhaps the other way around. He reached up to grab the sides of his head, pulling some of his hair in the process. Everything hurt and nothing made sense. Why was this happening now?

He forced his eyes open, taking one deep breath, then another. When had he closed his eyes? His mind was calming slowly, the beat of his heart thump, thump, thumping a soothing reminder that he was human, of course he was.

The man was gone. He looked around, searching for any sight, but his papers were gone as well. He let the target escape.

The options before him were limited. Secure the target, or return to the captain for further orders. The Asset… _the Soldier_ would have done the former without hesitation. The Bucky he used to be would have turned around to look for the captain, would not have even run after the man without him in the first place.

The person he was now was somewhere in between those two people, and the choice was less clear. Bucky had to make a decision on his own as to what was more important.

Put into that perspective, Bucky took off running the way he had come. His breath was now slightly labored but it wasn’t at all from physical exhaustion.

Off to one side was an open door that he had missed in his haste, and that had to be where the captain disappeared to. His pace slowed to a walk as he neared the desk where the captain was indeed standing at. He received a nod of acknowledgement, but both of their attention was on the desk. It was covered in plans and schematics of all types, all in German, and it had all been left in a hurry. Whatever was scattered around was likely less vital information, then, if it had been left behind.

Plastered on the wall was a large map of Europe that was marked with push-pins at various points. If this was where that man, the scientist ( _Doctor_ , his mind supplied) had worked, then they were likely the locations of other Hydra facilities like the one they were at. Factories, maybe. It would take a lot more than a workforce of two hundred plus POWs to provide Hitler’s army with advanced weaponry.

Wait. There was one missing.

Where was the base in the Alps?

Bucky scanned the map a third and fourth time to be certain, but there was still no marker anywhere near where one should have been. The story of Captain America’s last mission was well-documented. How the Howling Commandos stormed a secret base in the German Alps, and then Captain Rogers took a nosedive into the Arctic on a plane carrying bombs headed for the US. It was one of the most famous acts of heroism in a war filled with acts of heroism.

But that base wasn’t anywhere on the map. Which meant that either it hadn’t been built yet, or Hydra had taken “secret” very seriously and not put the location down anywhere, even in their other “secret” facilities. Since their paranoia was indeed justified, he wouldn’t knock them for _this_ kind of security. No wonder it had been a bitch to find.

Bucky was about to tell the captain they should leave when he saw something. If he hadn’t decided to gaze around the entire room just in case, he wouldn’t have noticed it. He could have gone his entire life without seeing the likes of it. Yet there it was – come up from the dark recesses of his past like a corpse stuffed in the closet.

It wasn’t quite like the one he remembered, but the metal table with restraints attached still brought upon a violent shudder. Bile, thick and sour, rose in the back of his throat, along with an urgent desire to bite off it tongue, if only to rid his mouth of the acrid taste of a rubber mouthpiece he hadn’t been subjected to in years.

The world around him disappeared in an instant, until all that existed was the inhumanly cold embrace of the metal, his skin alit solely by the leather that chaffed at his ankles and wrist, and the static hum of the device that he knew, _he knew_ they were keeping just out of sight, waiting until he drove himself mad with exhaustion and the flailing stopped. Only then would they place the electrodes on his temples, not caring that they would rip off skin, because there was just one purpose to this, and that was wiping the Asset clean of any thoughts, any glitches in Its programming that would lead It to thinking Itself more than just a weapon.

That was all It was — just a weapon, a tool, waiting for the right pair of hands to come along and use It for any and all needs. Just a—

A hand on the shoulder. The world came back. Too bright at first, but no, those were just eyes. The captain’s eyes. A blue like the vast horizons of a dawn-broken morning. Endless with hope and beauty and wonder and none of the things the Asset… the _Soldier_ would ever know.

The heart slowed. The stomach settled, and the breathing calmed.

“You alright?”

No. Never again.

“Just a freaked out a little,” is what managed to come out. He swallowed around a dry mouth and looked away.

The captain hummed in response and returned to the papers on the desk, shuffling through them with malicious swipes. With nothing else to occupy him, he joined in, looking to escape his thoughts more than anything. “It’s no wonder. Some of the stuff Hydra’s using almost feels like magic. Anyone would be spooked.”

He had thought their conversation finished. “Not that.” He tried to hide a hasty glance back at the table, but was unsuccessful. The captain caught the look and frowned. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a nod.

“Hard to believe anyone would put a human being through that kind of torture.”

He didn’t laugh, but the thought briefly occurred to him. “If you think that, Captain, you must not have met many people in your life.”

The captain stopped moving the papers and fixed a gaze directly upon him. “I’d prefer it if you’d call me Steve,” the captain said, ignoring the macabre ramifications of his words.

He blinked and then met the captain’s eyes. Openness and honesty. “Only if you call me Bucky.” Because that was his name. He was, now and forevermore, _Bucky_.

“Sure, Bucky.” The captain… _Steve_ gave him a soft smile that stirred warm feelings within. Some people might be inclined to call emotions like that happiness or joy, but all Bucky knew was that it felt _good_ , and he was already craving more of it.

A sudden explosion rattled the building, shaking them from their foolishly-built sense of false peace. Pleasant conversations aside, they were nowhere near safe. Neither of them should have forgotten that.

“That was too big to be one of ours,” Bucky said, his body tensing at the promise of an assault.

“Is Schmidt trying to take the whole building down on us?” Johann Schmidt, the founder of Hydra, was _here_?

Another explosion rang out and almost sent Bucky to his knees from the force of it. It didn’t really matter way if Schmidt was around. There was no way Bucky was going to go look for him.

“We need to get out of here before we’re buried.”

Steve took a last wistful look at the map, obviously hesitant to leave behind a key piece of information. His brows furrowed in concentration, and Bucky could only wonder what all was going through his head. Then he glanced back his way, and the light in his eyes changed.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Microsoft Word says this chapter is 1943 words. Thank you and good night.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> busy busy with cosplay and a con coming up. extra length and improved quality as bribery?
> 
> id like to thank the stucky library for keeping me in a stucky state of mind and the current political climate of the us for making me want to run away from reality.

Under apocalyptic skies blackened by thick smoke, they ran. The air, heavy with soot and valor, made breathing a little harder. Even for an enhanced individual such as himself. Bucky gave a sharp inhale as they passed through the gates, trying his damnedest not to wheeze. He might have swallowed a bit more smoke than he’d originally thought during their daring escape, but he would heal. He always healed.

The world behind was a blazing inferno, hellfire spewing into the evening. Fighter planes danced in the distance, though he could only hear and not see them. Bucky was having trouble discerning up from down. Or, for that matter, why he even _cared_. One foot in front of the other, eyes on the back of the guy in front, had taken him through more hours than he could count. He’d trekked across Afghanistan with little worry for trivial matters as physics or navigation.

Sure, push comes to shove, he’d step up in an instant to take control of the situation. But right now, command wasn’t his job. The only thing he had to focus on right then and there was to keep on keeping on and not let himself be trapped within his own mind. Simple, and something he had plenty of practice with.

Just like biting back the scream that had arisen in his throat when that creature had pulled off its face. The rubbery mask was pulled back like a cheap Halloween costume, but instead the nightmare was underneath. You know, when people called Johann Schmidt the Red Skull, he had thought it was just a nickname. A metaphor for the blood on his hands and the death in his wake. Because what sane individual would have thought that the guy _actually_ had a red skull for a head? There where some jurisdictions where Bucky wouldn’t be considered sane, but even his paranoid, over-thinking, always-on-edge mind couldn’t have predicted that.

And here he had thought his days of excitement were long behind him. Things were different now, though. He wasn’t a soldier with the might of the US Army backing him, and he wasn’t _the_ Soldier having his strings pulled by the Red Room. The danger was as real then as it was now, and there was no way he could deny the part of him that was _thrilled_ at the idea of being a free agent.

He’d always been pretty good at not straying too close to the end of the line. Only once before had he encountered a situation he didn’t think he was going to make it out of. Once, and now twice. Given that he’d been risking his life since he was a punkass kid jumping on rooftops back home in Brooklyn, it was a pretty damn good number. Death and all its facets had become his only companions as an assassin. Closer even than his own shadow. But though some memories were missing, most of them better left forgotten, the Soldier, too, had known quite well the limitations of his mortal flesh.

The fault could only be described as temporary insanity, then. In the discord of the previous days, he’d become reckless. It wasn’t a product of chance that he’d ended up high on that walkway, stranded with no escape. Bucky hadn’t been thrown onto the side of a dusty desert road, god knows how far from the nearest friendly face, bleeding out fast, not even knowing where his left arm had ended up— for fuck’s sake, it could have been ten miles up the road with the bodies of his friends, or still in the back of that beat-up old truck, and he was gonna die without ever finding out— and left to die because some assholes decided he wouldn’t make a good enough hostage.

Bucky had sought this out himself. He’d quite literally run straight into the fire with no plan, and only his ego to shield him. Aside from the rapidly healing burns on his right palm, he’d made it out in one piece. He had survived an alien invasion of New York, traveled some seventy odd years into the past, escaped entrapment by a cult of Nazi occultists, vaulted through the halls of an exploding building at the heels of Captain _Fucking_ America, faced a guy that was only second to Hitler in evilness, and somehow… god, _somehow_ he’d kept himself together.

The shaking of his hands normally associated with the beginning of a panic attack was notably absent, and aside from the vague panic of “I need to get the fuck out of here,” the thoughts in his head were calm and orderly for the first time in such a long time. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins better than any drug he may or may not have ever tried, nearly blinding him with euphoria, and the taste of vitality painted his tongue in a thousand vivid colors.

He was _alive_ , and life was _fantastic._

His high showed no signs of letting down as they reached the tree line. Bucky bent at the waist, letting the twilight air and heady weightlessness of unreality seep into him. A painful burn rode the length of his lungs, but even that was quickly dissipating out of memory. The scent of smoke might never leave him at this rate, and wasn't that a slap in the face. His whole life marked by blood and soot and ash in the name of survival.

Still his heart raced and his stomach churned with excitement. It wasn't the same as the nerve-wracking tremors that shook Sergeant Barnes as he lay on his cot during many sleepless nights, but nor was it the cool indifference with which the Soldier slicked death from his hands.

The men he had attacked back there. The ones he'd refrained from killing because there was no need. They were dead now, and in a way this, too, was his fault. But the odds of them having survived this day originally were minimal. The odds of them surviving the war infinitesimal. Logically, yes, he was at fault, but the hands of time move for no one man, and so he shouldn't beat himself up for being an actuator of fate. Now that was a role he wouldn't hate himself for playing.

A bone-grating cough let out beside him and then settled down before he had a chance to worry. Not that he should have anyway, because when Bucky looked to his right, Steve looked fine, and oh. Right. Supersoldier. The fact that there was someone with a healing rate comparable to, likely even better than Bucky's own, was something he was very much not used to. A part of him liked it, but another part was ridiculously upset that he might have finally met his match.

Bucky smiled to cover his thoughts, though it definitely looked more like a grimace when the skin of his lips cracked and bled. "We made it," he said, ignoring the coppery taste in his mouth since he knew it would be fine within the next few minutes.

Brighter than the Afghan sun, Steve grinned right back at him. "It was pretty dicey there for a while."

Quite an understatement, if Bucky had ever heard one. There they were, trapped on the highest walkway of an exploding factory with no escape route. The last stairwell had collapsed not long after Schmidt's departure, seeming to seal their fate. In those hazy last moments, Bucky could recall Steve's hurried mutterings. The Lord's Prayer, something he himself had little familiarity with. He wanted to say it was useless, that no god was going to save them now. The words were on the tip of his tongue, bitter in a way that his Ma would rake him over the coals for even thinking. And then...

And then...

Well, Bucky didn't quite remember.

It had something to do with a nearly indestructible shield, the incredible force of gravity, and the impossible plan of a two-bit kid from Brooklyn whose stubbornness would move heaven and earth. Loss of memory at the height of action was nothing new and something that Bucky just had to live with. It really only happened in extreme heat, which, trapped inside a burning building, running around kicking Hydra ass, enhanced metabolism? Yeah, his clothes were disgustingly soaked with sweat, and questioning how they were alive was not on his list of things to do.

The light of the setting sun, though veiled through the smoke, was shining on Steve’s face. Bucky was enthralled by the shadows and the smudges of dirt hidden under that tin can of a helmet. He was no artist. Certainly wouldn’t dare call himself even a casual admirer. Maybe it was the excitement in the air, or the way Steve’s face was so open that Bucky knew he’d make a terrible poker player. Or maybe it was that he was drop-dead gorgeous and _damn_. Just _damn._

He couldn’t stop staring. Klaxons were sounding in his head to look away, look away! Most people _really_ didn’t like it when he stared. Rebecca said it was rude, while their mother often warned that it could intimidate some. His little brother flat out told him that his creepy psychopath eyes freaked people the fuck out. All things considered, he very much appreciated Liam’s honesty.

But Bucky wasn’t the only one looking.

_Steve_ had his puppy dog eyes trained on him, but he wasn’t expressing any fear. Curiosity, maybe. The longer Steve looked at him, the more Bucky became aware of the state he was in.

He felt terrible. Disgusting. Covered in head to toe of caked and flaked mud, grime, sweat dirt, and things he’d rather not thing about. His hair was greasy and knotted. Unsalvageable. He was already beginning to mourn the loss of his luscious locks, even if he found the smell of them at the moment to be revolting. How he blocked it out in the first place was a wonder. He couldn’t recall when he’d last had a chance to shave, and now that he was paying attention, the scruff on his cheeks was itching something awful.

Here he was, face to face with an angel, and Bucky was a _hag_.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Fuck, did he not want to know the answer. Bucky was dreading any response. What did Steve see when he looked at him? A weapon? A monster?

“Sorry. It’s just your eyes,” Steve said, and a faint flush could be seen on his cheeks in the dim lighting. He turned his head away quickly.

“My eyes…?” They were… blue? Vacant? Haunted like that creepy house on the corner all the kids dared each other to go into in horror movies?

“I’ve never seen color like that before. I just wanted to memorize it.”

There were entire cosmos that could be filled with possible responses to a statement like that. Delight, anger, or gratitude; really, you could throw darts and pick something that worked. But Bucky was too damn tired to deal with this shit. All that excitement had worked its way through him, leaving him feeling boneless and ready to drop.

It was a real shame, because flirting with Captain America would be something to tell his grandkids about.

“We should keep moving.”

A slight frown settled on Steve’s face, and there was a small dip between his eyebrows. What, had he been expecting a punch in the face? It was 1943; quite possibly he could have. After a moment of thought, pointedly _not_ looking Bucky’s way, Steve nodded.

“Yeah. See where everyone lammed off to.” He straightened up and set out, once more not bothering to see if Bucky was following. If he didn’t know better, Bucky would have said it was arrogance set in his shoulders. Like he expected to be followed without question. Thing was, he did know better.

Steven Grant Rogers. Born July 4th 1917\. First generation Brooklyn native, born and raised, the son of Irish Catholic immigrants, and about as all-American boy-next-door as you can get. He was strong and brave and honest and righteous. Any special on the History Channel could tell you that much, but it took actually seeing him in person to understand just who the man behind the mask was.

Young, not just in age but in the eyes. Hopeful. Optimistic to the point of foolishness. Total Gryffindor if Bucky ever met one, but plainest of all was something he never would have seen coming: Steve appeared to suffer from complete and total social ineptitude. He wasn’t expecting obedience _,_ just like he hadn’t been glaring at Bucky before. The poor bastard just didn’t think about how his actions would be viewed. It was…

Annoying.

Quirky.

Adorable?

Bucky had a strong feeling that by the end of his time with Steve, he’d either want to slap him upside the head or kiss him silly. Or both.

Yeah, probably both.

The pace they set would have quickly worn out an average man, but Bucky was keeping stride with ease. It made it easier to not look Steve's way, because whatever had happened back there, whatever that thing was, it created enough of a gap between them where a prickly weight had settled in. That was one particular bramble Bucky had no interest in sorting through

Sunlight melted to darkness, and the glowing sliver of the moon held the focus of a vast blanket of stars. It happened quickly enough that a thick billow of smoke still covered a good portion of the horizon when Bucky looked over his shoulder. There was no noise, no stirring from behind save a light breeze that brought upon a welcomed autumnal chill. In front was another matter entirely.

The path ahead was fraught with the distant clamor of clumsy movement. It was both a bad sign, and a good one; there were survivors indeed, and from the shouts of English, it was their men. These were not sounds of battle, but of soldiers licking their wounds. Fortune had favored them enough to get them out alive, but they were already so weakened to begin with, and there was little chance they were without major casualties.

They broke into a segmented clearing, Steve a mere two steps ahead and were immediately greeted with the sight of locked and loaded weapons pointed toward their chests.

Bucky’s flesh hand instinctively twitched toward his waistband where he knew the stolen pistol still was, but the movement was suppressed in an instant. His gaze tracked between the ragged uniforms in various degrees of decomposition, reading what remained of the insignia. He knew they were allies, but his body wouldn’t relax.

“Stand down!” came a call. The men lowered their rifles, some of them the blue mystery weapons, resting the butts against their boots. Still Bucky didn’t relax, but Steve’s shoulders fell a little in relief.

Raspberry beret pushed through the men and froze as he saw them. His face was slack, but his eyes lit up. “Good Lord. It _is_ you. You’re alive.”

“And we’d prefer to stay that way,” Steve said with a slight edge, but it came off more as wit and the men chuckled. The tension vanished as Steve smiled, stepping forward with his arm extended. “Captain Steve Rogers.”

The two men shook hands.

“James Montgomery Falsworth, second lieutenant.”

“Do you know who’s in charge?”

“I haven’t looked around to see who’s still with us, but I’m in charge of this lot,” Falsworth said in reference to the group of men behind him. His face was tight, especially around the eyes. Not that Bucky could blame him. The losses of the war were unfathomable, though some of the worst had already come to pass. The hasty rush at Dunkirk was a fresh memory, but a memory nonetheless. The London Blitz was behind now that American and British forces patrolled the skies over the English Channel. Even the fires of Stalingrad were smoldering by now, and the Russian people picking through the rubble to rebuild once more.

But the end was not yet in sight. Even D-Day was just a plan on pieces of paper, the atomic bomb merely an idea. Bucky wouldn't pretend he was prepared to face warfare at this level, but no one was. At least he had ten years on a lot of the soldiers.

Hell, he had a few years on _Steve_. A shit ton more experience too. Maybe he could help without fucking up the future after all. How bad could saving the lives of a few soldiers throw things off balance?

Falsworth turned to him now, his eyes reflecting moonlight much like a watchful predator. He appeared to be waiting for something. But Bucky had nothing to give him, so why–

_An introduction_ , that human-like part of his brain whispered. Right, because that's what normal people would do in this situation.

"Oh, I'm not important." He almost had to laugh at his own insolence. What a non-sequitur that was. For better or for worse, Bucky _mattered_. He was important, and not just for being a nameless, faceless ghost. If it hadn't been for him... Okay, well. That was giving himself too much credit. Captain America was always going to rescue these men, was always going to come out a hero. Of course, no one knew that but him, so to them, he was someone.

Steve looked at him with a raised eyebrow, obviously not buying his shit. Perhaps, under all the layers of caked on gunk, Steve saw him as someone too. "Really?" he asked. At the very least, the awkwardness between them had lifted.

For all his stiff upper lip Englishness, Falsworth looked like he wanted to throw his hands in the air. Propriety’s sake was likely the only thing stopping him. “Well Captain Rogers and… Sergeant Barnes, if memory serves me well. If you’d follow me, the gents and I have been eagerly waiting to see if you would show.”

"I would have bet against us," Bucky said not too softly. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he had been skeptical that they would make it out alive. The odds were certainly not in their favor, and even though he knew how things were supposed to go there was still more than a twinge of uncertainty that had clouded his thoughts.

“And you would have owed me.”

Then again, how was he to know that events would unfold as he remembered? Like Marty McFly, he could be toiling away toward his own inexistence. Or like the new Star Trek movie, he could have created a whole parallel universe with what he's done. Fucking time travel. Things were complicated, and there really was no knowing what the answer was until he went back home. If he went back home.

How was he going to get back home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nooo bucky you aren't a hag. you just need a good spit and shine is all ~~that sounds like bad innuendo~~
> 
> kind of sort of not important to the story right now, but here's a look at Bucky's family:
> 
> Mama Barnes (aka Winifred)  
> Bucky (oldest)  
> Rebecca (second oldest)  
> Martha (middle)  
> Liam (youngest)
> 
> Bucky was adopted. and that is important.
> 
> let me know if there's any errors or anything.
> 
> peace, yo.


End file.
